


Thorn in Your Side

by Miranda_Glass



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Elio is okay, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, HIV themes, M/M, Oliver not so much, Pain &sorrow, Rome - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-09-27 11:59:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 97,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17161604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miranda_Glass/pseuds/Miranda_Glass
Summary: Rome, 1986.Elio is studying at the Conservatory of Santa Cecilia and he's forgiven and forgotten Oliver, or so he thinks.I don't want to spoiler the story, so just be aware that there will be angst and... yet more angst, before the boys get their happy ending.Narrated from Elio's POV, but it might change later.The characters are not mine. I don't own a thing.Please do not re-post my work on other platforms without my consent.





	1. When in Rome

**Author's Note:**

> The title was inspired by the song “Just around the Corner” by Cock Robin (1987).  
> The lyrics of the song perfectly describe Oliver and Elio’s predicament in my story, although maybe not in the most obvious way.
> 
> The chapter’s title is also the title of a novel by Ngaio Marsh
> 
> I am describing Rome in 1986 and since I wasn't there, I will make mistakes for which I apologise in advance.

_“Just around the corner, half a mile to heaven_  
_Strong enough to hold you, starved for some affection_  
_Darling come quickly, come ease my mind_  
_For my prayers have not been answered in a long time”_

 

Rome, March 1986

 

The best thing about Rome was its dazzling light and the worst was the constant noise.

I had been living in Trastevere since November 1984, when the Conservatory of Santa Cecilia had written to inform me that I had passed the exams of admission. Since the music school dated back to the 19th century and was renowned all over the world, it was fiendishly difficult to get in and I had applied almost as a joke, certain that I wouldn't stand a chance to make the grade.

After Oliver had left me at that train station, I had decided that I would not move to the States. I wanted to be close to my parents and friends, because I needed the comfort of their presence. Besides, I didn’t find America particularly enticing: the new administration celebrated wealth and individualism above everything. With my heart in tatters, I yearned for the warm embrace of Italy or France rather than the hostility of a new continent I’d only visited briefly as a kid.

 

I had been incapable of following my father’s advice despite trying my best: initially, I had probed the depths of my desperation, cried my eyes out, locked myself inside my room, got drunk, slept around, all the while thinking of Oliver every second of every day and night. I dreamt of him, ate and imbibed him, breathed and smelled him; for a long while, I had been convinced that I'd become Oliver and that, somewhere in New York, he had turned into Elio and that, like me, he was feeling empty and lost.

We had not heard from him after that snowy December when he’d called to inform us of his engagement. Dad had tried to ring him once, but the number had been disconnected. He still wrote to Vimini, but as far as we knew they never talked of anything personal. He never asked about me, but his silence did not surprise me. He had come and gone, like the summer, or the innocence of first love.

I did not hate or resent his decision: he had done what he thought was best for him and had perhaps imagined he was doing me a favour. In a way, he had. After a few months of intense pain and unhappiness, I had closed the memories of Oliver inside a box, which I never intended to open until the day I died.

 

I had several flings and one committed relationship with a girl named Manuela, Manu, whom I had come very close to loving. We were so much alike that many people mistook us for brother and sister: she was tall and slender, with short black hair and brown eyes. Her father was Italian while her mother was Canadian. They lived in Madeira, where they cultivated orchids. We’d met in a disco one night and found out that we were neighbours and went to the same local cinema, the Pasquino. We’d broken up when we’d realised that we seldom had sex and that we were better off as friends.

 

I liked boys and girls, but nobody shook me the way Oliver had done; it was fine, I didn’t mind. I was serene, at times even happy. I was where I wished to be: studying hard and making new contacts which might prove useful in the future. I never took stupid risks, always used protection and was rarely intoxicated to the point of forgetting what I had done the previous night.

At twenty, I felt thoroughly grown-up.

 

It was a warm Thursday evening in late March. Back in Crema, it was still foggy and chilly, but here I could wear a denim jacket over a t-shirt and not feel cold.

I was going to see Nash, who rented a tiny apartment in Via della Luce, on the other side of Viale Trastevere. His real name wasn’t Nash, but he came from Nashville and that soubriquet had stuck, for some reason. He was barely thirty, but because he was bald and wore glasses, he seemed older. A freelance journalist, he wrote articles about life in Italy as an American expat. He knew everybody and his dinners were frequented by a random assortment of people; too many, it always seemed, for that minuscule box of a place, yet they invariably fit as though the space adapted itself to the crowd and not the other way round.

 

I was coming out of the bar tabaccheria, where I’d stopped to buy a pack of Lido, when I noticed someone, a man, just before he turned the corner and disappeared from view. He was nearly as tall as Oliver, but slimmer, less prepossessing, with darker, longer hair. There was something in the way the man moved that had reminded me of Oliver. I shrugged my shoulders and hurried towards my destination. Inside the darkish hallway, that usually stank of mould and cat piss, was another distinctive scent, one that was imprinted in my synapses like the feel of my mother’s embrace or the taste of Mafalda’s _tortellini in brodo_ : _Roger & Gallet_, I thought, but it didn’t mean anything. Many people used the same fragrance and anyway I’d probably imagined it. It was gone now so I concluded that my brain had deceived me, wilfully providing additional proof to the imaginary sighting in the street.

 

I took the stairs two steps at a time and when I reached the top floor I was out of breath and in need of a drink.

“Elio, just in time,” Nash said, hugging me loosely. He was wearing a yellow shirt and a pair of stone washed jeans. He was always tanned, even in winter, and despite being almost a head shorter than me, he was much stronger.

“Listen, I know I’m being nosy, but was there someone here, a man,” I said, describing the person I’d just seen.

Nash scratched his nose and his lips quirked into a half-smile.

“I told him to come before the guests arrived, but you are early, as usual.”

“You asked me to,” I argued, “And anyway, what’s the mystery?”

“He sold me some weed.”

“So what? It’s not like you never bought it before.”

“Not from him. The best shit in Rome.”

It definitely couldn’t be Oliver, but I was curious to find out more about this guy.

“I suppose you don’t know his name.”

Nash had asked me to help him move some furniture around in order to free some space in the dining room. We were carrying a coffee table towards the bedroom, when he replied, “His name’s Kurt, but I doubt that’s what’s on his passport.”

“American?”

He nodded.

We went back to collect some carton boxes filled with books.

“I didn’t see his face.”

His description of Kurt didn’t tell me much, aside from the fact that he had blue eyes and was decent-looking. Nash wasn’t into men, so he hadn’t paid his dealer any mind. Oliver's most unusual feature, his pointy canines, had not been noticeable because – according to Nash – Kurt had not smiled.

“Why did you ask him to come here? It’s dangerous, now that he knows where you live.”

Nash let out a sonorous laugh. “I saved him the trouble of asking around. And anyway, he’s not the criminal type. I can tell.”

“How can you?”

“His nails are clean, his diction is good and his manners are impeccable.”

He prided himself of being a shrewd judge of character, if a bit remiss when it came to observing details.

“And your conclusion?”

“I didn’t bother forming any, but if I had to give you one, I’d say that he smelled of misery.”

“Unhappiness?”

“Absolutely reeking of it.”

I let the matter drop when the bell rang.

 

Hours later, we were smoking joints with the first-class Mary Jane provided by the mysterious Kurt.

The crowd had thinned down to four: Nash, me, a boy called Marco and his girlfriend Ulrike. We were pleasantly high and the conversation had turned to - of all things - chairs.

Marco’s father owned an antique shop near Piazza di Spagna and the two of them also had a side business which consisted in the re-upholstery of chairs and sofas.    

“I don’t like the Bauhaus,” Marco declared, shaking his finger in the direction of what looked like a copy of Van der Rohe's cantilever chair.

His German companion smiled proudly, as though she owned that style of modernism.

“The design is amazing,” I said.

Marco huffed, “They are like flamingos.”

Nash giggled so hard he bit down on his reefer.

“What’s a flamingo?” asked Ulrike.

After Marco had explained it to her, she looked even more puzzled.

“But why?” she enquired. She had a milk and roses complexion, and her eyes were the same colour as Oliver’s. Why was I thinking of him again? I took another drag and tried to focus on what was being said.

“They are flashy and slim-lined, but you wouldn’t take one home and keep it as a pet, would you? The same is with that chair. I bet you never sit on it,” Marco addressed Nash, who had slid down to the floor and was drawing patterns on the shaggy carpet.

“Of course I sit on it,” he replied, “Why do you think I bought it?”

“For people to notice it and talk about your impeccable taste,” I suggested.

He tilted his face up to look at me.

“Touché,” he said, with a tight smile. He was never pleased when people guessed his little vanities. I’d never had done so while sober. I’d apologise later - or maybe not, since it would only make it worse. I meant to ask him how he’d found Kurt and if he could help me trace him, but I knew that this wasn’t the right moment. I had pricked his _amour propre_ and he would frustrate my attempts at getting what I desired. His pettiness never lasted, so if I phoned him the following day, all would be forgiven and forgotten.

“This shit is a flamingo,” said Ulrike, flicking her asymmetrically-cut hair. “Where did you get it?”

“It must be Kurt’s,” intervened Marco.

“You know him?” I asked. I couldn’t help myself.

“Not him personally, but I have heard his name.”

“Who from?”

Nash snorted, “Elio has been the victim of love at first sight.”

The back of my neck was red-hot and my cheeks were getting there.

“I only thought he might be someone I used to know.”

“In the biblical sense?”

“None of your business.”

Marco defused the mounting tension by nearly setting the rug – and his own trousers – on fire. We doused the entire mess with Panna water and after that, agreed to call it a night.

 

Ulrike was riding her bike home, while Marco and I were walking in the same direction. I waited for them to kiss goodnight, wishing I had someone to hug and cuddle. That was partly the effect of weed, but I couldn’t deny the fact that the mysterious drug dealer had jogged my memory and my senses.

“Where do you live?” I asked Marco. I offered him a cigarette and as I handed him the packet, I realised it was still untouched. I had not smoked, aside from the joints and the Marlboro that Nash had offered me before dinner.

“Via Dandolo,” he replied, “I should have taken my scooter.”

We smoked and walked in silence for a while, before I asked him the question I’d been burning to ask.

“You don’t know Kurt then?”

“No, never seen him, but I could ask around. I think it was a friend of mine who told me of him, but I’m not sure. If you give me your number, I’ll let you know.”

We exchanged telephone numbers then chatted some more until we came to the point where we had to separate.

 

Home was a large room with a galley kitchen, a diminutive bathroom and a balcony. There was no space for a piano, but I loved it all the same. Many of my friends lived in shared accommodation, while I could go from bed to shower in the nude without having to worry about bumping into strangers. Occasionally, it could be lonely, but I had my guitar, my stereo and my books to keep me company. On the walls, there were cheap reproductions of paintings and posters of films. There was a photo of Björn Borg too, because he’d been my first male crush.

That night, as I lay down in bed in my oversized t-shirt, I took one look at the tall, blond tennis player and experienced a bout of nausea.

I spent hours with my head inside the toilet. At dawn, when I finally fell asleep, I dreamt of Oliver.


	2. The Singer Not the Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get to know our Elio a little bit better.
> 
> Note: I have changed Friday to Thursday in the previous chapter, because I needed the day after to be a working day. 
> 
> Also: I am referencing both the film and the book. In this story, Elio and Oliver went to Bergamo (not to Rome) and they never saw each other again after they parted in Clusone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: thanks to you lovely peeps for the comments and kudos.  
> Special thanks go to @Albione who provided invaluable information about Rome in the 1980s
> 
> I know someone who teaches at the Conservatory and I'm aware that things changed after 1999, but I have mixed things up to suit the story.

It had been an erotic dream, but in the morning I refused to let it unsettle me.

Dreams are easy to forget if one doesn’t reshape them into a narrative.

While I prepared coffee and toasted bread, I felt the lingering sensation of something salty and heavy on my tongue; I knew what that meant: Oliver had been the first man I’d taken inside my mouth and the intimacy of that act had brought shame laced with pleasure and pride. The latter had been the most insidious of the three, because there was a part of me, elusive and resistant to change, which delighted in giving things to Oliver: my bed, my books, my body, my soul. I’d wanted to be the best he’d ever had and deny him nothing.

I had no regrets and I hoped it was the same for him.

 

The Conservatory was in Via dei Greci, a half-hour walk from home, but the day was sunny and warm so I decided to cycle. I had bought an old Legnano from Beppe, who repaired shoes inside a shop that wasn’t much bigger than a hole in the wall. It smelled of leather and polish and Beppe’s hands were always dirty; he had taken a fancy to me, because I reminded him of his son before he got fat, he said. “Too many burgers,” was his verdict, as he launched a scathing tirade against the new, pervasive threat of American fast food chains.

I didn’t bring him much business, since I was mostly wearing trainers or espadrilles, but I sent all my friends to him and the girls loved him.

“Elio, what’s new?” he said, as I straddled the Legnano. “You are pale as a ghost.” His shop was next to the door of my building and when he spotted me and wasn’t busy, he always came out to greet me.

“I had too much to drink,” I replied.

“Youth,” he beamed, “You need a woman or two, to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“Maybe after I finish my studies,” I said.

“No, no, but no, Elio,” he pretended to get angry, “How many times do I have to tell you? This is the time, _ragazzo mio_. Enjoy it while you can, before you have a job and a family.”

“You sound like my father.”

“Your father is a very wise man.”

“I won’t tell him that. He’s already far too conceited.”

He laughed and went back into his leather-scented hovel.

 

That day I had History of Music, Theory of Harmony and Analysis lectures then Chamber Music, Interpretative Techniques and Improvisation. I was forced to play catch up, because unlike many of the other students, I had no previous academic experience. I’d had a tutor for a few years, but I had never taken exams or frequented a music school. I had chosen Composition and Piano and I was cramming in as many optional disciplines as I could manage. I wanted to impress my teachers and exceed my own expectations.

At lunchtime, I headed to the local _pizza al taglio_ to get my usual slice of cheese and tomato pizza with chips.

Some of my friends were already there, sitting at one of the outside tables.

I plopped down on a plastic chair and started eating avidly; the malaise of the night before was already a distant memory.

Sabino was holding court, as usual.

“I shouted at him to come down and I swear, I absolutely swear to god that he blew me a kiss.”

I knew who he was referring to, but I asked all the same, only to rile him up.

“Who was it and does he need glasses?”

He scowled at me. “Very funny ha ha,” he said, “Renato does not need anything; he’s perfect as he is.”

“You didn’t go there again,” I sighed, “He will call the police one of these days and you’ll spend the night inside a prison cell.”

Sabino was a rabid fan of a famous Italian singer, who looked like a cross between Marc Bolan and a transvestite illusionist. He had a devoted following which congregated outside his house at La Camilluccia and waited for him to give them a sign, like some modern messiah.

“I don’t care,” he replied, “I’ve never tried it and it might be fun. You should come with us tonight; we are all going.”

The others nodded; they didn’t seem too happy, but they were resigned. He’d been trying for a while to convince us to go with him and never succeeded.

“Why tonight?” I asked.

“He’s leaving for Viareggio tomorrow, so maybe, you know, he will come down and talk to us.”

“And sing us a song?”

“I wish he needed a violinist,” he said, for the umpteenth time. The violin was Sabino’s instrument and he was frequently berating his parents for not having chosen a more pop-music-friendly instrument.

“So are you coming with us or not?”

I didn’t have any other plans and I was curious to see what kind of people played Romeo every night to this peculiar Juliet.

“Sure. Are we going by bus?”

He snorted.

“We are not barbarians,” he replied, “I will drive us there.”

“Is your dad away again?”

Sabino’s father was a buyer for a chain of department stores and he was always travelling. He didn’t trust his son with his car and he wasn’t wrong.

“Yes, so I can take the Golf.”

“So very preppy of you,” I joked, “Don’t let Renato find out that you are so bourgeois.”

“Shut up,” he shrieked, and we all giggled.

 

We were supposed to meet at Largo Argentina, and when I got there, the car was already waiting for me. My friends had bailed out so it was only the two of us. Sabino took one look at me and shrugged.

“You could have made an effort,” he complained, taking in my attire, which was no different from usual: jeans, t-shirt and denim jacket. He was in white from head to foot, and his face was made up with eyeliner, rouge and coral lip gloss; his short black hair was shining with wet-look gel.

“You’ll stand out even more,” I replied.

We got there in double the required time, because of the traffic and due to the fact that Sabino took a couple of wrong turns.

Outside the gates of the singer’s villa, there was already a group of people.

We parked the car and got out, lighting cigarettes as though they were candles and we were attending a religious ceremony.

 

One hour later, the group had swelled into a proper crowd. Sabino had warned me that it might happen, since the singer would be going away on a long tour the following day.

I soon lost him, since I refused to risk being crushed against the railings in order to catch a glimpse of someone I didn’t care about.

 

Further along the road, sitting under a tall locust-tree, were a boy and a girl. He was playing guitar and she was singing.

I stopped to listen and they invited me to sing along.

After a couple of songs, they offered me a beer and I took out my cigarettes.

“If could spare some change,” the girl said, smiling. She said her name was Licia, and she wore her auburn hair in two thick plaits that reached down to her slim waist. The boy’s name was Alex. He was stick-thin and his big brown eyes were enormous in his emaciated face.

“Sure,” I said, and handed them what I had in my pocket. It wasn’t much, just enough to buy a cheap dinner, but they thanked me profusely.

I gathered that they’d expected me to ask them questions and had been prepared to fend them off, but my silence had the opposite effect.

“We have occupied a floor inside a _casa popolare_ in Via dei Volsci,” said Licia, while Alex puffed on a Lido.

I wasn’t into politics, but I knew that many left wing and anti-fascist movements had found their home in that area of the city.

“No, no,” Licia shook her head and her plaits grazed her bare arms, “Left or right, they don’t care about us.”

“Us” was a makeshift commune of people who had been infected by the HIV virus and whose families had disowned them. The state wasn’t interested and the same went for the major political organisations.

I felt the extent of my privilege down to my costly Levi’s jeans and Superga shoes, and the shame that came with it.

“Aside from money, could I,” I hesitated, “Do you need any help?”

Alex let out a bitter chuckle.

“Not being treated like we are lepers would be a start,” he said.

“I didn’t mean, god, I’m sorry,” I stuttered, and Licia squeezed my hand.

“He didn’t mean you, don’t worry,” she reassured me, “We’d love it if you could come and spend some time with us. Bring some food, if you can. And blankets; we always need those. I’ll write down the address, but anyway, it’s the big green door surrounded by graffiti. You can’t miss it.”

I left them under the locust-tree and went back in search of Sabino.

 

The next day I had a date with Manu. The Pasquino was holding a Dirk Bogarde retrospective and I planned to see most of the films. They were on rotation over a two-week period and that evening they were showing “The Singer Not the Song”.

We came out on to the brightly lit piazza and started talking at the same time.

“He was in love with the priest,” Manu said. She wasn’t the type that beat about the bush.

“That was so camp,” I chimed in.

We burst into laughter.

We ordered two beers at the bar next to the cinema and found a secluded table inside, in order to avoid the noise.

“What’s the meaning of the title?” I asked, because I loved to listen to her pontificate. She rolled her eyes at me.

“That even though that ridiculously named bandit hated the church – the song – he loved the priest - the singer. I can’t imagine why anyone would wear leather trousers in Mexico.”

That observation brought on another fit of giggles.

“Did you like him?” she asked me. She knew that I’d been with boys and didn’t care.  

“Yeah, he was okay, but I’m not sure about the cowboy hat. What about you?”

“I was intrigued by the leather gloves, although they made even less sense, in that heat.”

“How did they not see how gay the film was when it first came out?” she marvelled.

I shrugged, “They didn’t want to entertain the possibility that two famous actors could play homosexual characters.”

“Hiding in plain sight,” she said, “In this case, in the Mexican desert, with acres of black leather.”

We drank and smoked then she asked me the usual question.

“Met anyone interesting?” We kept tabs on each other, like real siblings.

I didn’t want to tell her about Kurt, because then I’d have to speak about Oliver, say his name out loud. No, I couldn’t do that. I told her about the San Lorenzo commune instead.

“I’d heard about it,” she said. She went to La Sapienza, the University located in the same _Quartiere_. “But I thought it was only an urban legend. You planning to go?”

“Tomorrow,” I replied, “Want to come along?”

She made a face. “Sundays are depressing already, and I was thinking of going to Porta Portese. I need a new bag.”

“You have dozens of them.”

“They cheer me up and besides, when I’m done with them, I give them away.”

“Are you done with me?” I joked.

“If I gave you away, no one would have you,” she smiled and ruffled my hair. “I’ll buy you a brush.”

“Don’t waste your money,” I grinned, “So you are not coming?”

“Next time,” she replied, “As long as it’s not on a Sunday.”

I knew that she only wanted me to assess the situation in advance, sort of casing the joint on her behalf.

“I’ll phone you so you can put it into your diary, my dear,” I said, and she kicked my foot.

We stayed out till it was nearly dawn, ending up at the Pantheon, eating ice-cream for breakfast. The sky was a peculiar shade of pinkish blue, as though a dark cloth had been thrown over a night light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: we get closer to Kurt


	3. The Good Samaritan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio goes to San Lorenzo and finds out more about Kurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks for your patience. This story is a slow burn and I know how boring it can be to have one of the boys without the other. Things are picking up though and I promise that they will meet soon...
> 
> Warning for discussions about HIV and drug use. I am not a doctor so please kindly suspend your disbelief. I mean no disrespect to anyone, this is only fiction.

 

Licia had been right: the dilapidated red-brick building was hard to miss. The main entrance was painted green and so were the peeling window-shutters. The façade was decorated with graffiti of _Lotta Continua_ , the _Red Brigades_ and a smattering of obscene scrawls. The street was deserted apart from the parked scooters and bikes. The rubbish tip was overflowing and feral cats were sharing the spoils. The blare of TV sets and radios indicated that Lazio and Roma were playing, which also explained why there was no one around.

I was a sporadic football fan and wasn’t supporting any team in particular, but I knew how passionate the locals were about their idols.

I was carrying a wheeled suitcase filled with random items; Beppe - who opened the shop on Sunday mornings in defiance to the church - had given me two pairs of men shoes which hadn’t been collected by their owners in over a year. On the Saturday, I’d bought some canned and dried food, and I owned a thick blanket which I’d never used.

The green door was heavy and it creaked when I pushed it open.

Inside, there was the usual stench of mould and urine. I imagined that the cats I’d just spotted in the street would get in here to seek shelter from the rain and the cold.

I climbed up the stone staircase and it was on the second floor that I met Gio. He could have been my age, but looked older or perhaps ageless, as though time had gone right through him and left him only with skin and bones. Slim as I was, I felt bloated in comparison.

“You seen the _dottore_?” he asked. From his accent, I could tell he was from somewhere up north.

“What doctor?”

He clicked his tongue. “Not _a_ doctor, silly. Who are you, anyway?”

I explained about Licia and Alex, and he nodded, but didn’t seem interested.

“I think they went busking somewhere,” he waved his translucent hand, “Termini, maybe, or Piazza di Spagna.”

“I have some food and shoes and a blanket,” I muttered. I was out of my comfort zone, so far from it I’d need a compass to find my way around it.

We hadn’t moved from the landing and the man, who was wearing a flimsy pyjama, had started to shiver.

“Maybe you should go back to your room,” I said, “And I could wait for the doctor.”

His eyes went glassy then softened and for a moment I thought he was going to burst into tears.

“I don’t think he’ll come,” he murmured, and began to walk away. After a few steps, he realised I wasn’t following him.

“Well, what are you doing there?” he said, impatiently.

His room was small and stuffy, but he was very proud of it because he didn’t have to share with anybody. It was then that he told me his name and asked for mine. He also cadged a cigarette and I gave him the entire packet. It surely wasn’t healthy for him to smoke, but at that stage of his illness it couldn’t make much of a difference.

 

We were sitting on Gio’s bed: the mattress was hard, but the sheets and fleece blankets were clean.

“I was among the first to come here,” he said, “That’s why I got this rabbit cage all to myself. The building had been abandoned after it was declared unfit for habitation.”

“Is it dangerous?” I asked, looking up at the ceiling. There were no cracks that I could see, but that meant nothing.

“No,” he laughed, “Just very old and with shitty wiring and plumbing. See?” he said, flicking a switch on the stained wall. There was a crackling noise and the light came on briefly then quivered for a few moments and died.

“Who was this doctor you were waiting for?”

He smiled broadly, and the skin stretched across the planes of his face, like a death mask.

“He’s not a real doctor, but he knows where to find all the goodies,” he said. Those were drugs such as Bactrim and Pentadamine, along with morphine and methadone.

“Once he got the opium too,” he added, “It’s for the diarrhoea. Usually, we get tablets of Loperamide, but the opium was more fun.”

I laughed and he joined in. We were smoking our second cigarette, when a blonde girl marched in. Her face was marked by acne and her nose was pierced.

“What’s going on?” she asked, belligerently.

Before I could reply, Gio shouted “Fuck off,” and she was gone as quick as she’d arrived.

“Don’t mind her,” he said, “She’s just pissed because Kurt didn’t turn up.”

I choked and nearly coughed up a lung.

“You okay, baby?” Gio cooed, caressing my back. No one had called me that in a very long time. Oliver never had, except once, in Bergamo, after I’d been sick over the cobblestones of the piazza.

“Fine, fine,” I gasped. I drank from the bottle of water I’d taken with me, in my backpack.

“I think I’ve met Kurt, once,” I half-lied, “At a dinner party, I believe.”

Gio’s eyebrows shot up.

“I very much doubt it,” he said, “No one really knows who he is or what he does, aside from being the Good Samaritan of drugs.”

“The... what?”

“I don’t shoot up, never have,” he said, “But I am no saint and I can tell you that Kurt is no peddler. That’s A-class junk that he’s bringing us, and all _gratis_.”

“Why would he do that?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest.”

“Have you seen him? What does he look like?” I tried to stay calm, but it was as though there was a glass splinter in my heart whose presence I’d long ignored.

“No, not really,” he replied, “Except... once I was warming some milk on the gas ring and I heard him talk to Ivano in the next room. Ivano’s in hospital now, but this was two, three weeks ago, maybe more. Kurt was speaking Italian, but he has this thick American accent, you know what I mean.” I nodded, and he went on, “They were talking about someone named Phidias. I only remember it because it made me think of Findus fish fingers. I had a sudden craving for them; very strange.”

“He was a Greek sculptor,” I whispered, “Phidias, I mean. What did they say?”

“I couldn’t really hear and I wasn’t interested. But Ivano was going to university before he got sick. His parents are from Sicily; very religious,” he curled his nose, “They didn’t want him back.”

“But you didn’t actually see Kurt?” I insisted.

“From a distance, once,” he shrugged, “He’s not my type, you see? I like them dark and hairy. Well, I used to. Beggars can’t be choosers now.”

I wanted to scream and laugh at once: Oliver and Kurt were one and the same person, of that I was sure. Oliver - the embodiment of perfection, who three summers ago had been the object of desire for so many boys and girls – had become as inconspicuous and impalpable as a ghost.

No one recalled him, no one seemed to care.

“The girl who came in here before,” I started.

“Ines,” he said, “She’s on heroin. You won’t get anything sensible out of her, but you are welcome to try. She will be going out as soon, if Kurt doesn’t show up.”

I opened my suitcase and showed Gio what I had brought. The food didn’t interest him, but he appropriated a pair of shoes. They were old-fashioned lace-ups: he tried them on and was delighted when he saw that they fit.

“Go find your man,” he said, as he stashed his loot under the bed.

“What man?”

He winked at me.

“I’ve got AIDS, not blindness,” he said. “Give us a hug, before you go.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and held him as tight as I dared, afraid as I was of breaking him.

 

“I don’t fucking want it,” Ines was screaming at someone I couldn’t see. I ran out and nearly collided with a thickset, swarthy man who carried a Coop carrier bag filled with boxes of various sizes. The doctor, I thought. The man rummaged inside the bag and after a while, he found what he’d been looking for.

“Here,” he handed the packet to her, “This is your dosage for the week.”

“Better than nothing, is it,” he snarled, but he ignored her and went searching for his other “patients.”

“What are you staring at?” she barked in my direction.

She had a gold filling on one of her front teeth and her bare legs were dotted with bruises.

“Would you like a beer?” I was improvising, “I have a couple of Ceres in my backpack.”

“Okay, but not here,” she replied, and ushered me into another small room which seemed too tidy to belong to her. On the wall above the bed, I saw a photo of the girl I’d met on Friday night. She was embracing a healthier Alex who, in turn, had his arm around the waist of a blond green-eyed boy. They seemed very happy.

“You know them?” Ines asked. She sat on the bed while I put down my suitcase and sat on it.

I nodded. “I met them the other night at La Camilluccia.”

“And you came here to do what, take pity on us?”

I handed her the beer, but I didn’t have a bottle opener.

She didn’t need one; the edge of the bedside table was good enough for her. She slammed down hard and the cap flew up in the air, fell down on my head and nestled among my curls. It made her laugh and eased the tension between us.

“I heard you were waiting for Kurt,” I said, after a while. I had a spare pack of cigarettes and offered her one in order to distract her.

“The bastard never shows up when he knows the doctor’s coming,” she replied, scratching the side of her neck. “I told him he was coming on Saturday this time round, but he didn’t believe me. Clever son of a bitch,” she gazed at me from under her sparse eye-lashes.

“He’s American, isn’t he? What’s he doing here?”

“Same as you, maybe,” she sniggered, “Looking for absolution for his sins.”

“Why do you say that?”

She stood up and went to the window, closing the shutters. They had wooden slats so the light penetrated through the gaps.

“He’s always miserable,” she said, echoing Nash’s words. “And he’s got purple rings round his eyes.”

“Does he,” I couldn’t get the words out, at first. “Is he using?”

She screeched like a monkey.

“Who, Kurt? Not on your life! He wouldn’t give it to us if he was on it,” she drank most of the Ceres and belched. “He’s a bloody life-saver, I’m telling you. A pain in the ass, but at least I don’t have to suck dick no more.”

She eyed me up and down, “Unless,” she said, and I immediately stopped her.

“No, no, that’s not,” I stuttered, and she laughed again, this time lewdly.

“I was kidding you,” she bellowed, “Piss off, Bambi. I have to take care of this,” she indicated the box the doctor had given her.

“One last thing,” I said, “Did you find him or did he find you?”

She frowned as though I’d spoken in a foreign language.

“I don’t know. I always thought he was Ivano’s boyfriend. He was the only one Kurt was talking to.”

“Gio said that Ivano’s in hospital.”

“Yeah, he won’t get out this time, I don’t think.”

“But Kurt,” I whispered.

“He’s got it too,” she said, in detached manner, as though it wasn’t a death sentence she’d just pronounced. Thankfully I wasn’t standing or my legs would have buckled from under me.

 

I made it out of the room, but I didn’t have the heart or the energy to explore the rest of the building. I didn’t want to disturb Gio, so I emptied the contents of my suitcase on a table in the corridor. I assumed it had been put there for donations, since it was not the place for random furniture. I chuckled at the absurdity of my thoughts, examining them as though they were separate entities. I had to get out of there. Like Dante emerging into the star-lit sky after having been in hell, I basked in the warm sunshine. I took a few deep breaths and started walking towards the metro. One of the cats followed me for a while then gave up and retraced its steps. He belonged there, but I didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not worry, I promise everything will be all right in the end. Really and unequivocally all right.


	4. Thanatos and Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet at last!  
> This is my present for New Year's Eve. Not much of a gift, but the best is yet to come...
> 
> I wish all of you a terrific 2019, filled with beauty and happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a long-standing rivalry between the Roma and Juventus football teams. I checked on wikipedia and in March 1986, Roma beat Juventus 3-0, so I did not invent this one :))
> 
> Despite its German-sounding name, Wührer is an Italian brand.

After my visit to San Lorenzo, I was in denial.

I’d never been in the presence of imminent death; even Vimini, whom I knew was severely ill, looked strong and healthy.

My reaction was predictable and ordinary: I wanted to enjoy life and forget that I was made of perishable stuff.

I dropped off my suitcase and backpack and headed to the Birreria Trilussa; it was an unfashionable bar which served dirt-cheap beer which the _oste_ often watered down. It reminded me of the poky place which Oliver had frequented to play cards. I saw him as clearly as though not a day had passed since then: his shorts, his unbuttoned shirt and the miles of golden skin, the strong muscles; I shook my head to chase the memories away.

The football was over and the mood inside the bar told me that the home team had done well.

“Free beer if you are a _Juventino_ ,” shouted the _oste_ , and the place shook with merriment, “Hook, cross, uppercut, knockout, job done.”

A man with a big head of white hair kept shouting, “ _Tre, tre, tre_ ,” as his hands displayed the number three.

“Elio, what’s up?” The _oste_ , whose name was Gigi, always joked that I was foreigner; not because I wasn’t fully Italian but because I came from up north.

“I’m a _Juventino_ ,” I said, smiling, “Give me a large one and no water.”

He slammed his hand down on the counter and laughed.

“Of course you are,” he chuckled, “Well, you got your ass kicked today, big time.”

If you only knew, I thought. Gigi served me a tankard of Wührer and true to his word, I didn’t have to pay for it. I left him a tip all the same, and he gave me a pack of Rodeo chips.

I sat down next to a couple of guys I knew and they started to chat about the game. I didn’t have to say anything except for a few well-placed exclamations when the goal-scorers were mentioned. My mind was elsewhere and it took another half-litre of beer to assuage the ache in my chest.

 

The next item on my list was sex. Like I said: ordinary and predictable.

Before I got together with Manu, I’d had a tryst with Silvia. She worked in a boutique in Via del Corso and I’d met her there while looking for a birthday present for _maman_. She had dyed platinum hair and brown eyes, and had a competent, brisk manner, which was relieved by her sense of humour and by her sensuality. I’d given her my number and we’d had fun for a while. It was clear from the start that it couldn’t have been more than occasional sex: we didn’t have much in common and she preferred the gym-going type who squeezed her within an inch of her life. She liked me because I didn’t demand more than what she could offer and it was the same for me. I didn’t want drama and she didn’t know the meaning of the word.

I invited her to dinner and bought arancini and stuffed aubergines from a _trattoria_ nearby. I was too tipsy to cook and my fridge was almost empty.

“Hey curly,” she said, because that’s what she called me whenever we were alone.

She had brought a bottle of local white wine and with her also came the insouciance of love with no strings attached. I kissed her on both cheeks – she only wore make-up on her eyes and lips – and she hugged me tight. I could feel the wire of her bra under the flimsy fabric of her dress.

“You’ve lost weight,” she said.

“Look who’s talking,” I countered, squeezing her narrow waist. Like me, she was naturally slim and didn’t mind what she ate. Her only hang-up was her chest: she wanted bigger breasts, but not to the point of having surgery; padded bras would have to do, she said, and I agreed wholeheartedly. In fact, I didn’t care; I liked her the way she was.

We dined, chatted about impersonal topics, drank, and ended up in bed, where I briefly found the solace I’d been yearning for.

“You okay?” she asked, while we smoked a post-coital cigarette.

“Usual,” I replied, “Lots to study and I hate _solfeggio_ with a passion. Aside from that: same old, same old. You still at Via del Corso?”

“Not for long,” she replied, scratching her neck, “They are opening a shop in Cola di Rienzo. They want me to manage it.”

“That’s great, we should celebrate.”

Silvia smirked.

“I thought we’d just done that, but if you want to go again.”

“Making me an offer I can’t refuse,” I joked.

“Unless you have something better to smoke,” she said.

I tried to be impassive, but I must have failed spectacularly, because she turned towards me and studied me closely.

“Did you get stopped and searched?” she asked.

“No, it’s nothing to do with that.”

“What then?”

I’d never told her about Oliver, nor had I ever mentioned that I slept with boys as well as girls; I had a feeling that I could say anything to Silvia and that she would not judge or even remember it in the long run. If I met her again a month from now she’d have to be told again; like it took her four dates to keep in mind that I was studying music.

“Have you ever heard of someone named Kurt?”

“Is he a fashion designer?”

“A drug dealer,” I replied. “Well, not exactly.”

I told her the story from start to finish, not yet mentioning Oliver.

“That’s a strange coincidence,” she remarked, “Two places in three days.”

“But that’s how it goes,” I said, “Things start to crop up everywhere when you notice them.”

“Hmm,” she wasn’t convinced, “Maybe he’s after you, this Kurt guy. He’s American, your dad is American: maybe he knows your family.”

I couldn’t shut up any longer.

“Three years ago I had a fling with an older boy,” I blurted out, “Kurt looks a lot like him.”

Her eyes went wide, but she didn’t say a word; she ground her fag end into the ashtray and lit a fresh one.

“You never said you were gay,” she murmured, “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“I like both.”

“Yeah, evidently,” she sighed, “Tell me about that guy.”

I gave her a bowdlerized version of my summer of love and managed to utter Oliver’s name without choking on it. I did it carefully, as though I were cupping my hands around a butterfly, wary of touching its wings.

“Wow,” she exclaimed when I was done, “So he should be a married professor but you believe he’s a dealer and that he still goes with men. Why would he be here if it weren’t for you? There are plenty of druggies in New York, from what I’ve heard.”

“But he couldn’t possibly know where I am. My parents would have told me if he’d asked that sort of question. And aside from them...” I stopped and thought of Vimini. She’d always been the weakest link in the chain, since she loved Oliver more than she cared for me. I made a virtual note of finding out, but I was sure I wasn’t the cause of Oliver’s predicament.

“You have to find him. Ask Nash to give you Kurt’s number. Who do you buy your weed from?”

“Oh, you know, here and there. I’ve never gone to a dealer.”

“Tell Nash you are throwing me a party for my promotion and that you want to buy me something special.”

I couldn’t imagine anything stranger than getting in touch with Oliver in order to buy marijuana for my girlfriend. I felt dizzy and covered my eyes with my forearm. There were black spots floating in the darkness and a vague despair was taking shape, like a meteor hurtling through space and becoming more visible and menacing as it approached the Earth. My situation couldn’t withstand that sort of scrutiny.

Silvia got up to get a glass of water and when she returned, she gathered up her clothes and began dressing.

“Early start tomorrow,” she said, with a smile.

I looked at her long graceful spine, at her bleached hair and her turned-up nose and felt like a child whose mother is about to leave for work; the feeling came and went, and when I shut the door after her, I was myself again.

 

It was two days later at six in the afternoon when Nash returned my call. I had left a message on his answering machine, because I preferred to not do this in person.

I explained what I needed and could almost hear the whirring of his synapses.

“Don’t give me this crap about throwing a party,” he mocked, “You like the guy, that’s how it is. I am a journalist, I read people: you have the hots for Kurt.”

I knew better than to antagonise him.

“He’s interesting,” I offered, “I’m intrigued.”

His smugness wafted through the ether.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I’m not promising anything; the guy is like the Scarlet Pimpernel: they seek him here, they seek him there: you know the drill. I’ll make a few phone calls and call you back. Far be it from me to stand in the way of true love.”

“True-blue cupid, you,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied.

 

Swallowing my pride, I got in touch with Vimini, but I drew a blank: she told me that Oliver had stopped writing to her a long time ago. She had tried to contact him by telephone but to no avail. Obviously, if he really was in Italy, he didn’t want her to find out and the postage stamp would have revealed his location.

This mystery was so unlike Oliver, I thought. But then again, what had I truly known of him, except for the scraps of information he’d shared with me?

I waited for Nash’s call with my heart in my throat, while at the same time pretending that I was too busy to care. It got so bad that I resolved to spring-clean the bathroom, only to grind to a halt when I realised I might not hear the phone ringing, what with the water splashing about. I sat at my desk, opened a book and read the same sentence over and over again, without memorising a single word of it. I was on my third Lido when Nash called again, and despite having waited for it, the brash sound made me jump. I let it ring three times before picking up.

“I swear, that Kurt is like the Pope: impossible to get hold of, unless you know whose palms to grease.”

“More like the Godfather than the Pope,” I argued, clenching my teeth so that my heart wouldn’t leap out of my mouth.

“You got me there,” he joked, “Anyway, I won’t bore you with the details; I’ll tell you next time I see you. Ready?”

I wrote down the address he gave me, with shaking hands.

 

Kurt did not live in a dumpster: that much was clear.

Because of his ‘occupation’ and the company he kept, I’d anticipated a derelict building in a downtrodden area, such as the Magliana or Testaccio. I certainly would not have expected the upper class environs of the Balduina, with its views over St. Peter’s cupola and its luxurious cars parked on well-tended streets. No double or triple parking here; and no rubbish on the neatly-paved sidewalks.

I had picked a time when – I’d reasoned – someone like Kurt would be most likely to be at home: it was six in the morning and it was only adrenaline which prevented me from falling asleep on my bike.

The building was a modern one, with huge balconies on every floor and striped awnings protecting them from the sun. I didn’t want to ring his bell, so I waited for someone to come out. About ten minutes later, I got lucky: it was a boy about my age, and he didn’t pay me any mind. Now that I was inside, all my nerve deserted me. What if Kurt wasn’t Oliver at all; what if he was a dangerous criminal who’d as soon kill me as look at me? A killer wouldn’t discuss Phidias with an AIDS victim nor would he give away costly drugs for free.

I needed to know. Scratch that: I wanted to know.

The apartment was on the second floor, so I did not bother taking the elevator.

I climbed the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible, almost on tip-toes, as ridiculous as such a precaution was.

There were no name tags at number 23, but there was a brass doorbell, which looked like an antique.

“Here goes nothing,” I whispered, and pressed it firmly.

There was no sound and wondered whether it had been disabled, but after a couple of minutes, I heard the muffled noise of approaching footsteps.

“Who is it?” the voice asked. It was a man’s and it was low and hoarse.

“I’m looking for Kurt.”

The door opened a chink, enough for me to discern the unshaven face of a man who wasn’t the one I’d come to meet.

“He’s not here,” he said.

“Can I wait for him?”

He shook his head: his hair was short and silvery, but he wasn’t old.

“It’s not a good idea,” he said.

“Why not, I’d just sit down and wait; I wouldn’t cause you any trouble.”

“He doesn’t like that,” the man replied, “People coming here,” he shook his head again, “That’s not cool, not cool at all.”

“I know and I’m sorry I’ve come so early, but you see, I have this party tomorrow and my girlfriend wanted something really amazing; someone told me about Kurt and I thought-”

My tale was rudely interrupted by someone shouting: “What the fuck is going on?”

The door was flung open and a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in nothing but a pair of Robe di Kappa shorts pushed his friend aside and was gearing up to insult me when our eyes met. It took all the strength I had not to swoon like a Victorian maiden.

“Oliver,” I murmured, and to my dismay, the only man I'd ever loved started to cry.

 


	5. Only Pleasure and Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk, and Elio is kicking ass.
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments and kudos, they mean a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from the song Just Around the Corner

_"You can't know about everything_  
_Only pleasure and pain"_

Everything happened at once, as it often does in times of chaos and intense emotion.

Oliver’s tears were swiftly wiped away; the silver-haired man kept asking “Who are you and who’s Oliver?”, while I tried to take in as many details as possible, in case I was thrown out the door without further explanations.

“Give me a minute,” Oliver said, and guided his friend, whose name was Rico, back to where he’d come from; maybe they slept together, I thought, but couldn’t entertain the notion for more than a second.

When he returned, he was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of faded blue jogging pants.

“Let’s sit here,” he indicated a niche to the right-hand side of the front door; there were two chairs and a low tabled littered with old magazines.

I obeyed, glad that I no longer had to stand upright. I stared at him, couldn’t help it because it was too absurd to be true: Oliver was here in Rome and he was living in a strange apartment with a strange man. I couldn’t reconcile the two images: that of my Oliver - the golden, god-like academic with a brilliant future in front of him – and Kurt – the broken and bruised drug-trafficker whose only way was down. He had lost weight and seemed to have shrunk, although his arms and thighs retained their muscular appearance. His hair was longer and darker and there was stubble on his throat and cheeks; there were purple shadows under his eyes and his cheekbones were more defined. Nash had been right: Kurt exuded an air of misery and even though my Oliver’s beauty was undeniably there, it was no longer shining bright but grimy and dimmed.

I reached out to touch him but he flinched. “Please don’t,” he said.

“I only wanted to,” I started, but he didn’t let me finish.

“I can’t, I just can’t,” he whispered, clenching his teeth, “You are so--- you look great, Elio.”

My name in his mouth was like a miracle; something in me thawed and ached, like a limb whose circulation had been cut off for too long.

“What happened, why are you in Rome?”

He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger then let out a long sigh.

“It’s a long and complicated story.”

“I have time.”

Oliver gazed at me from underneath his eyelashes.

“How did you find me?” he asked, and I told him about Nash.

“I knew it was a mistake, but I needed the money.”

“I saw you, as you walked away. I wasn’t sure, because you seemed different.”

He chuckled, “You can say that again.”

“But why Kurt; why choose this particular name?”

He winced, “He was a friend of mine.”

“Like Ivano?” I said, and saw a spark of anger in his tired eyes.

“Have you been spying on me?” he hissed.

“My life is amazing,” I shot back. “I don’t need to stalk an ex-lover who ditched me in order to feel better about myself.”

Oliver’s face crumpled and a look of utter despair painted his features.

“Sorry,” he murmured, “I’m no longer used to casual conversation with normal people.”

“What are you used to?”

His mouth curved into a bitter half-smile.

“Crooks, addicts,” he replied, “Those who have slipped through the cracks.”

“You sound like a preacher.”

I had succeeded in making him laugh. “Not me,” he said, turning sombre again, “I have never been farther from God than I am now.”

It was then that I noticed he wasn’t wearing his Magen David; it was another shock, piling bruise upon bruise. My hand went to my own necklace, which I had never removed since that summer.

“Did you know that I was in Rome, too?”

He nodded, “Your father mentioned it once. Well done; about the Conservatory, I mean. You deserve all the best.”

I could tell that he was sincere, that he wasn’t patronising me; and yet there was the fact that he had come to Rome knowing that I was here and he had not contacted me.

“It’s not like that,” he said, reading my ever-eloquent countenance, “Your life is amazing, you said so yourself. Mine, well, let’s just say you are better off without a friend like me.”

The shock of being with Oliver had overridden all other emotions, but anger was rearing its head.

“You don’t get to tell me what sort of friends I should have. If you are in trouble, I may be able to help you. I’ll do anything,” I said, irritation already giving way to affection.

Oliver’s eyes shone with tears, but he swallowed them and set his mouth into a firm line, “You can’t help me; nobody can.”

“Are you sick?”

I held my breath.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

I got up and strode into the open-plan living room, a salon so vast that a few couples could have danced the waltz in it without colliding with each other.

The furniture was a mixture of art nouveau and modernism, and there were books scattered around and stacked upon a huge mammoth of a desk. There was an electric typewriter too, and a ream of paper by its side. Maybe Oliver had not given up writing, and if that were the case, if there was a first draft, he would perhaps let me read it.

He hadn’t followed me, so I went back to him. Oliver was deep in thought and his eyes were laden with sadness.

“You can’t be here, Elio, and I don’t mean now,” he said, “Get out the door and forget you ever saw me. Don’t come back, don’t try to contact me, stay away from the San Lorenzo commune. If you want to help - food or clothes or whatever - there’s a donation drop-spot inside the Policlinico Umberto I. I could draw you a map.”

I was back to being furious; my chest was heaving with the effort to keep breathing without shouting like a madman.

“Are you insane?” I spat out, “You _have_ to find out if you are sick and I _have_ to know. There is no fucking way on earth I’m going to leave this bloody apartment unless you promise me that you will get tested.” I dropped down on the floor and crossed my legs, “I won’t move from here.”

For the first time, he got angry too, which to me was progress, as it was a more active emotion than misery or resignation.

“You don’t get to order me around, kid,” he growled, “You and I were together for a few days three years ago. This,” he indicated himself and his surroundings, “This is where and who I am; there are reasons for the way things are.”

“I don’t give a shit about your reasons,” I said, “You are not getting rid of me so easily.”

His face softened. “Elio Perlman,” he murmured, “Still stubborn as a mule, I see.”

“Only way to get results,” I smiled.

“You shouldn’t be involved in this mess,” he sighed, “That’s why I never reached out to you and why I hesitated when Nash contacted me. He knows everybody; I suspected you’d be in that number.”

“But now I am here and I’m no longer a kid,” I said, “I can face the truth, I swear I can.”

Oliver’s eyes gleamed. “But I can’t. I want you to remember me the way I was.”

“That’s just bullshit. We are not two old people on the verge of death. We can make new memories.”

I realised what I’d said, but it was too late to take it back. Oliver winced as though he’d been hit.

“All is under control,” he said; his expression had gone blank and I was suddenly sure I wouldn’t get anything more out of him. I wanted to hold him, to touch him and stroke his hair and his cheeks. I knew he wouldn’t let me, so I had to catch him by surprise. I asked him for a glass of water and followed him into the kitchen, which was a Sixties affair with optical tiles and ancient appliances. As he filled a glass from the faucet, I hugged him from behind. He stiffened and tried to push me away, but I held on to him for dear life.

His heartbeat was erratic and he reeked of stale sweat: I wanted nothing more than to keep him safe in my arms. If I kissed the back of his neck, he’d bolt: so much, so obvious. I yearned to lick him; where was this desire coming from? Where had it been hiding all this time? I had slept with Silvia and it had been thoroughly satisfactory, but I hadn’t felt this thrumming inside my veins, like an itch that could never be scratched.

“Let me go,” he said, with a tremor in his voice. Beneath my fingers, his muscles tensed and released. I wondered what would happen if my hands moved down to his abdomen then to his crotch. Would he throw me out and disappear? He couldn’t leave the commune: Gio, Ines and the others depended on him.

“Let me help you,” I countered.

“Okay,” he replied, “Get out of here, be happy and successful. This is what you can do to help.”

I pressed my cheek to his shoulder-blade.

“I can’t be happy if you are going to---” I couldn’t say it. I swallowed mouthfuls of air and waited.

He turned around and curled a finger under my chin, tilting my face up so that he could look me in the eye.

“You are so lovely,” he said, “So clean and pure, that’s what you are. And I am no longer the man you used to know,” he grimaced, “I’m done; that part of me is finished forever.”

“Fuck this,” I replied, my cheeks aflame “I’m not an angel or a statue or some innocent boy in a painting. I haven’t been practising chastity after you left me; only a few days ago I was in bed with a girl.”

He smiled wryly, as though what I’d said didn’t concern him; had never concerned him.

“I can look after myself,” I continued, “And I am not expecting anything in return.”

“Why waste your time on me?” he asked, and he was so genuinely puzzled I felt like screaming the place down. I chewed on my lips for a beat or two then gave an imaginary two-finger salute to the universe and kissed Oliver on the mouth.

He tried to resist me, but I gave him no quarter: I used all my strength and adrenaline to keep him close to me, while my tongue found his, stroking and teasing and licking, the way he’d used to like it. When he finally reciprocated, it was as intense and sensual as it had always been. Oliver kissed like it was his favourite activity, like there was no before and after, but only the act itself, repeated ad infinitum, until we’d be forced to part or risk suffocation.

We’d have gone on in much the same vein had it not been for Rico, who had entered the kitchen, cursed and gone out again.

Predictably, Oliver stepped back as though he’d been caught doing something criminal.

“You see?” he said, scowling more at himself than at me, “This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. We can’t be friends, you and I. And I am done with that.”

“You can’t be done with that, no human being should be,” I replied. I still had his spit in my mouth and wanted more, but this wasn’t about me and my desires.

“We can be friends,” I continued, “I reacted that way because I was angry and I couldn’t get through to you in any other way. But I can do better; I promise I can.”

He hesitated and as he pondered my words, he stroked his lips with the pad of his thumb. I was hypnotised by that tiny gesture. I was lost again, every part of my heart which had been anaesthetised was wide awake, and so were my senses.

“I’m going to visit Ivano tonight,” he said, and gave me the floor and ward details, “I’ll be there at 8pm. If you come, I don’t want you to call me Oliver.”

“I can’t call you by your name?” I asked, smiling.

“Get out of here,” he replied, but he was smiling too.


	6. Perfume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio goes to visit Ivano (and Kurt) at the hospital.
> 
> Elio is like a dog with a bone: he won't give up, lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of HIV-related illness. Nothing graphic, but better safe than sorry.
> 
> Note: Elio lives in Vicolo della Frusta. Frusta is Italian for whip. ;)

I cycled home in a daze.

Emotions came and went in waves and by the time I reached Vicolo della Frusta, I was almost numb.

Beppe came out of his shop, holding an espresso cup in his blackened hand.

“I’m not gonna ask where you have been this early,” he said, with a complicit smile.

I parked my bike in the usual spot and chained it to a post.

“I went to visit a friend I hadn’t met in a long time.”

That sounded meek and prim compared to what I felt, but I needed time and solitude to sift through my thoughts.

“Want an espresso?” he asked, and I was only too glad to accept.

He had a butane-powered hob on which his _caffettiera_ took pride of place. He once told me that he could drink up to ten cups a day and still sleep like a baby. If I drank coffee after dinner, only sex would make me drift off. I decided it was better not to go there.

 

That afternoon I had two hours of practice and two of theory: at five, I was done.

Sabino and a few friends invited me to go play pool with them at _Ariel_ , but I told them I had a previous engagement. That elicited a number of salacious comments and wolf-whistles, but I did not respond.

 

In the shower, I tried my best not to think of Oliver’s scent, of the stubble on his cheeks and the silky feel of his tongue; it didn’t work: I got hard and was ashamed of it, but shame was not enough to turn me soft again. I took care of it as quick as I could, but I came with Oliver’s name on my lips. I would have to remember to call him Kurt, a stratagem that I wasn’t too happy about but found hot at the same time.

I didn’t believe Oliver was sick, it couldn’t be true, not now that I’d found him again. In any case, I would not let the matter drop until he got tested. And I would make sure to go with him, whether he wanted me or not.

I smoked a cigarette while I waited for the time to pass and wondered what I should bring to Ivano. Ines had mentioned that he was terminally ill, but she might have exaggerated; like most drug addicts, she might be too fixated on herself to care about other people. When I was sick, I usually read tons of books, and I imagined Ivano might desire the same kind of distraction to take him out of his head. I examined my books and found one which was still new and that I had kept aside for the holidays: it was the Italian translation of Süskind’s Perfume. The events described in the book were utterly at odds with our reality, so they might divert Ivano’s attention – for a while at least – away from his situation. I put the book inside my _Invicta_ , together with two packs of Lido and a bottle of mineral water. Not that he would be allowed to smoke inside the hospital, but just in case.

 

The closer I got to the hospital, the more uncertain I became that Oliver would be there. I’d been an idiot, a naive childish idiot, I berated myself. He didn’t want to be my friend since the first thing I had done was try to jump him.

I had to be better, I thought, and resist the temptation of caressing his skin and run my fingers through his hair. It could be done; hell, I had been years without him and managed quite well. A discordant voice inside my head mocked my rationalisations: you were not inches away from him - it said - you did not witness the despair in his eyes, the tears in them. My stomach clenched at the thought and so did my fists. I would not allow you to be distressed and lonely, I proclaimed: it was a promise as well as a threat.

 

I let out a surreptitious sigh of relief when I saw him sitting on the chair by the bed.

Ivano’s face was partly disfigured by what looked like herpes. He was attached to a drip and his eyes were bloodshot, with swelling all around them: so much for my book-reading idea.

He was in a single room, probably as a precautionary measure, in case he was contagious.

Oliver – pardon – _Kurt_ was feeding him ice chips.

I cleared my throat and when he turned to look at me, he did the same.

“This is Elio,” he said to his friend, “Elio, this is Ivano.”

The young man stretched out his free arm, the one not pierced by a needle, and smiled.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, and his eyes widened for an instant, as if something had surprised him. “I still can’t believe I can speak again. I really thought that I’d have to re-learn my own language.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I have something called toxoplasmosis,” he explained, enunciating slowly, “Which caused this,” he indicated his face, “and nearly made me blind and caused me to talk gibberish. Words were okay when inside my head but as soon as they came out of my mouth they were just a load of nonsense.”

“What are they giving you?” I asked, pointing at the drip.

“Zovirax, for the herpes,” he replied, “And a bunch of antibiotics for the infection.”

“I brought you something to read, but I guess it’s out of the question.”

Kurt threw me a cryptic look, but Ivano’s eyes lit up.

“Thank god,” he said, “Finally someone with a little common sense.”

“The doctor said you shouldn’t strain your sight," Kurt said.

“The doctor doesn’t have to lie in bed with nothing to do but listen to hospital gossip.”

I took the book out of my backpack and handed it to him.

“I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed, “I thought the Italian edition wasn’t out yet.”

“My mother is a translator,” I said.

“Did she translate this too?”

“No, that would be Giovanna Agabio, but we know her, so she gifted us a copy of the book.”

Kurt was trying not to smile, but his lips were refusing to obey him. Ivano caressed the book and frowned, “But if that’s your special copy, I can’t accept it.”

“Please, it would be make me very happy,” I insisted, “Besides, I was keeping it aside for the holidays and by then it will be in all the bookshops.”

“I don’t have anything to give you in return,” he said.

“You’ve already done that,” I replied, staring at Kurt, “Thanks to you, I found him.”

Ivano eyed his friend with unabashed curiosity.

“Where did you two meet?”

“Three years ago,” I replied, but Kurt interrupted me swiftly, “I was a different person back then,” he said, “Arrogant and selfish; you wouldn’t have liked me.”

“I doubt that very much. I’ve always had a weakness for big blond Americans. What about you, Elio?”

I blushed and said nothing.

“Here, take this,” said Kurt, gently pushing an ice-chip in between his friend’s lips. Ivano chewed on it and grinned, “He’s trying to make me shut up, but I won’t be silenced. Kurt is the best person I know: he’s helped me when I had no one else. I have made friends at the commune, but before that, it was awful. My boyfriend died. I lost my job and my parents wouldn’t take me back. I am from Sicily and it’s all about God and tradition over there. Kurt knew Peter, my boyfriend. He thought I’d be fine in Via dei Volsci and he was right.”

“You’ll come and stay with me, when you get discharged,” Kurt said, but Ivano shook his head.

“No, that would be charity. At the commune, we are all in the same boat and we can help each other. I don’t want to be a burden.”

I wondered if Ivano knew about the drugs; he must, I thought, and he didn’t mind.

We stayed about thirty minutes until a nurse came in and told us time was up. Ivano squeezed my hand and thanked me again. I felt a tightness in my chest, but I smiled and wished him all the best. I wanted to see him again, but I didn’t suggest as much, in case it was bad luck.

 

“Come back with me,” I told Oliver, before he could invent an excuse to run away.

“I have things to do,” he replied.

“Can’t you spare a few hours for an old friend?” I insisted, “I want to show you where I live.”

We were outside the hospital, smoking my cigarettes.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. He was so sexy, even wearing faded jeans and a cheap denim shirt. The hair at the hollow of his throat brushed against the stubble on his neck. I wanted to bury my nose in there and spend the night like this, just breathing him in.

“It’s a brilliant idea,” I argued. “You need feeding up and I have a lovely big steak with your name on it.” I had been to the Coop after leaving the conservatory and I had bought salad too, and two bottles of dry white wine.

He groaned: food was his weakness and he’d not been taking care of himself properly for a while; I could tell.

“Okay, but I will only stay for dinner. I don’t want a repeat of what happened this morning. And I need to call Rico: he’s not feeling well and I don’t want him to worry.”

“Is he your---?”  

Oliver rolled his eyes.

“He’s my friend. I told you that I no longer do _that_.”

“Relationships?”

He nodded and I decided to let it slide for the moment being. I had won my first battle and it wouldn’t be wise to antagonise him before he was inside my apartment, wined and dined and at my mercy.

 

The first thing he did was walk up to the Borg poster and giggle. The laughter dissipated the tension he’d accrued after calling Rico and two other people he didn’t tell me about. He’d insisted to call from a public phone box, because he didn’t want me to listen in. That’s not what he’d said, but that was the real reason.

“What,” I joked, “I’m like Ivano: I love them big and blond.”

“You’ve become even more shameless,” he smiled, “Nothing and nobody can stand in the way of Elio Perlman’s desires.”

“But I know how to treat my victims,” I said, “In your case, it’s with a juicy hunk of _bistecca_.”

He insisted to set the table and open the wine, while I cooked the meat and prepared the salad. It didn’t take long and ten minutes later we were eating and talking as though we’d never parted. I kept the conversation casual and before he’d realised it, we’d finished the first bottle. His cheeks were flushed and he looked healthier and younger.

“What happened to your fiancée?” I asked, tipsy enough to be brave.

He sighed and averted his gaze.

“To cut a long story short, she ditched me when she found out what a disgusting mess I was. I don’t blame her, I wish we’d never gotten back together. It was a mistake and I knew it the moment I did it. But that was old Oliver: walking right into a disaster zone pretending it was a field of daisies.”

I opened the second bottle and poured him a glass of wine.

“Did you cheat on her?”

He snorted.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

That hurt, but I was prepared for it.

“Anyone in particular?”

He cast me a strange look.

“You, mostly,” he replied, “I was searching for what I’d lost in all the wrong places.”

“Did she catch you in the act?”

“No, but once we had an argument and I was high, so I screamed at her that I loved sucking cock and that was it really,” he said.

That shouldn’t have made me laugh, but it did, and it was the same for him.

“You really loved sucking cock,” I said, lowering my voice and staring him in the eye.

“Elio,” he warned me, but I was too keyed up to care. I went up to him and sat in his lap.

“I want you to know,” I said, bringing my hand to his hair, “That I’m here for you; that I won’t judge you or reproach you for what you did or didn’t do. The slate is clean and we can start from scratch. It doesn’t have to be everything or nothing: it can be just this,” I said, trailing a finger down from his neck to the opening of his shirt.

“This always leads to more,” he replied, his voice already hoarse. “And I can’t do that.”

“You only have to say no,” I countered, softly, “And anyway this is what I was dreaming of before.” I scooted back then bent down and nuzzled the hollow of his throat. “Hmm,” I moaned, inhaling his perfume.


	7. Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver do the deed, sort of.
> 
> Mind the smut, because there is little else.
> 
> Thanks so much for your support. You are the best.

“No, no, no,” Oliver said, pushing me away, as he’d done the first time we’d kissed. Tonight, though, there was fear in his eyes.

“I have done nothing yet,” I protested.

“Only friends, remember?”

“I don’t like labels,” I argued. “There are several shades of intimacy we could explore.”

He snorted. “Shades of intimacy?” he mocked, “Where did you get that from, the biography of Casanova?”

I tried – in vain – to stay serious. I took his head in my hands and kissed his lips and cheeks. “Listen to me, okay? I want to make you feel good because I suspect you haven’t for a long time. Tell me if I am wrong.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. I waited a handful of seconds and took his silence as confirmation.

“You can set the boundaries and I won’t cross them, but I know that making out is not dangerous.”

I moved my hands away from his face and placed them on his chest.

“Touching is also allowed,” I whispered, before leaning in and licking a stripe from the base of his neck to his earlobe, which I bit, lightly.

He swore then stood up, holding me to make sure I wouldn’t fall on my ass.

“You are not playing fair,” he complained, scratching the spot where my tongue had just been.

“I’m not playing at all,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. I saw that he wanted to bolt; but there was a hunger in his gaze I’d not been expecting, like someone who’d given up hope of ever eating again.

“Can you stay the night?” I asked.

He burst into laughter.

“You really haven’t changed,” he said, “Give Elio Perlman a finger and he’ll take your whole hand.”

I bit my lips, “About that,” I husked, and he flushed brick-red.

“Christ, Elio, give me a break, will you?”

“Sorry, but it was always so easy between us and it hasn’t changed,” I said.

He frowned, “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” I replied, “This back-and-forth, this ping pong of seduction. It worked back in the day and it’s working now. You can’t turn off that switch.”

I took him by the hand and guided him towards my bed.

“Let’s just sit down,” I suggested.

“Said the spider to the fly,” he grinned.

“I don’t think they can do that,” I joked, “they don’t have posteriors.”

He was perched on the edge of the mattress and I didn’t crowd him. I stared at his thighs, brawny and strong underneath the worn-out denim, and marvelled at the sight of Oliver on my bed. Nearly three years had gone by and I had thought that I was over him; not rid of his memory, perhaps, but certainly past that flutter in my chest and shiver down my veins I’d used to feel. Instead, it was the same if not worse. Maybe because even though I’d slept with boys – most of them about my age, give or take a couple of years - Oliver had been the only man I’d had. I had not wanted another: no one could ever measure up to him.

He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands which were clasped and resting in his lap.

“I won’t put you in danger,” he said. “And I’m not sure I can trust myself, if you don’t behave.”

“We keep our underwear on and no action below the belt,” I proposed.

“No cheating,” he cautioned.

I made the gesture of crossing my heart and he chuckled.

“Do you need to phone Rico?”

He shook his head, “I told him not to wait for me,” he said, and when he saw my surprise, he added, “What, you bought me steak so I knew you’d want your pound of flesh.”

I elbowed him in the ribs and we ended up wrestling, rolling around and laughing, like we’d done in our hotel room in Bergamo. When he pinned me down with his body, the warmth and scent of him almost undid me. We stayed like that for while, just looking at each other and reconnecting with skin and hair and muscles.

“You go first,” I said, “I’ll tidy up in the kitchen. There are clean towels under the sink and there’s a spare toothbrush inside the cabinet.”

“Casanova,” he joked.

“I bought it today, for you.”

He nudged my nose with the tip of his, “You are a fucking menace, Elio Perlman,” he murmured.

I brushed my lips along his chin, relishing the scrape of his stubble.

“About that,” I whispered, and felt the reverberations of his laughter all through my body.

He rolled off me and walked towards the bathroom.

“No undressing, aside from shoes and socks,” I said, “I want to do the honours.”

“We’ll see,” he replied, and I could swear that he’d wiggled his ass when he'd felt my eyes on him.

 

I did the dishes in record time, and when I returned Oliver was already lying down, feet bare but clothes still on.

“I won’t be long,” I said, and I was true to my word. I’d already showered and didn’t have to prepare for any special sexual activity, and besides I was eager to get my hands on Oliver’s bare skin. I removed everything but my boxer shorts and went to join him.

“Fuck, Elio,” he hissed, “Warn a man, for god’s sake.”

He was devouring me with his eyes, which seemed to have fastened on my torso. I had not put on weight since the last time he’d seen me undressed, but I had lost the softness of adolescence and acquired more definition; my shoulders were broader and my pectorals harder. Oliver evidently liked what he saw, even as I found myself too slight and androgynous.

I switched off all the lights expect for the one on the night table. It had one those old-fashioned bulbs, whose light resembled that of a candelabrum. I’d placed the bottle of wine and two glasses next to it, but no condoms or lubricants, since they wouldn’t be needed.

“Want some wine?” I asked Oliver, as I sat on my side of the bed and glanced at his shell-shocked expression.

“Yeah, why not,” he replied; when he thought I wasn’t looking, he adjusted himself and when I hazarded a quick peek, I almost choked on my tongue: Oliver's hard length was obscenely visible, bulging alongside the zip of his trousers.

I poured him a full glass and brought it to his lips, cupping the back of his head with my free hand. After he was done, I drank too, and was grateful for the kick of the alcohol and the Dutch courage it provided.

I rubbed my thumb along Oliver’s lower lip, gathering the remains of wine; I sucked it into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks. There was a moment of dead silence then he groaned deep in his throat and pulled me on top of him; his hands were all over me: in my curls, down my back, on my legs; stroking, pressing, massaging. My lips sought his mouth and my tongue slipped inside, going wild once it found its mate. I was hard in a matter of seconds and my sex had already found its way out of its confinement through the slit in my boxers, and it was being pleasured by the motions of our bodies and the texture of Oliver’s shirt. If we didn’t stop soon, I was going to come by frottage alone; not that I minded, but I wanted to rub against Oliver’s naked skin.

“Wait,” I said, and he immediately froze. I didn’t want him to misunderstand, so I raked my fingers through his hair and pulled it, like he’d used to like it.

“It’s even better than I remembered,” I whispered, and he hummed, his hands on my hips.

“Can I undress you?” I asked, watching a veritable diorama of emotions play out on his features: desire, fear, affection, sadness, hunger.

“I’ll be gentle,” I whispered, and he swallowed his words and maybe his tears, too.

Afraid to find bruises or scars, I was grateful for the soft lighting which protected both of us.

I kissed the underside of his jaw then along his throat, sucking on his Adam’s apple; he was arching his back already, eager to feel my touch on his chest.

One button at a time, I divested him and it was like unwrapping him for the first time. That morning he’d been shirtless, but I had not fully believed that it was my Oliver and not a stranger that was standing in front of me. Now, I was stroking the fur on his pectorals and the raised pink nipples and he was moaning and writhing; his hands were spurring me on, asking for more. I wanted to give him everything and my fingers weren’t enough, so I used my lips, my nose, my cheeks and my torso, rubbing them against him, every crevice, hollow and moist inch of his upper body. When I stuck my tongue into his navel, he cursed loudly.

“I’m gonna fucking explode if you don’t take off my jeans,” he said.

I had overlooked my erection, which had left trails down Oliver’s stomach and on his trousers; as soon as he hinted at his own, mine twitched in sympathy.

“You said no below the belt action,” I rasped.

He glared at me, if the dazed look he cast me could be called that. His hair was deliciously dishevelled. As I took in the sight of his naked torso, I had to bite my lips in order not to whimper: he may not be as golden as the old Oliver, but he was hairy and muscled; there was no sleek waspishness left in him; he was slim, hard and slightly seedy. A man, and he was here and he needed me.

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I replied.

The button popped open and the zip nearly got caught in the fabric of his underpants. It wasn’t a smooth operation, but it was soon done.

Oliver’s tummy was flatter than I recalled and there was a fine trail of dark hairs traversing it, from belly button to groin. He was wearing a pair of blue shorts, stretched tight over his hard cock. I could smell his musk and I knew without having to check, that his balls had escaped their prison of cotton.

“Fuck it,” I gritted out, and palmed his package, giving it a good squeeze and wishing I could slide it into my mouth.

Oliver grabbed my wrist, but allowed me to fondle his jewels for a long while. When he decided it was enough, his cockhead was pushing out of his shorts.

He was breathing hard and I was in no better condition; I collapsed on the bed by his side and flung my arm across his waist.

“This can hardly be fun for you,” he whispered. “You can have so much better.”

“Yes and no,” I replied, “You drive me crazy: you know that?”

Oliver sniggered.

“I’m being serious here,” I insisted, pinching his abdomen. “You’re sex, all of you, from head to toe.”

“Maybe once, but not anymore,” he replied.

I turned to the side and pulled him against me. My dick was pressed to his hip and my hand rested on his erection. I wasn’t doing anything, but I intended to make us both come. I knew there was no danger from jerking him off with my hands through a layer of fabric. He needed that and I would give to him.

“That’s where you are wrong, my friend,” I said, my breath hot on his throat.

“You remember that time,” I started, and he murmured, “Yes, I do.”

“I haven’t told you which time.”

“I remember everything,” he replied, “But tell me.”

I placed my leg on top of his and started to rock my hips.

“That evening, when we went down to the river with a bottle of my dad’s Courvoisier and the intention of sleeping under the stars.”

He smiled. “You were so drunk you wanted to climb a tree and I had to restrain you.”

“I tricked you,” I said, “I wanted you to tie me down and fuck me raw.”

Beneath my fingers, Oliver’s dick throbbed.

“Oh god,” he moaned.

“I begged you and begged you and you just wouldn’t.”

I moved my hand up and down, slowly.

“We had no lube,” he said, his voice all rough and ruined.

“I didn’t care, I wanted you inside of me. What did you do, tell me.”

His legs had opened wide and I moved my hand down to massage his sac.

“Yes, yes, I, yes,” he moaned, and I was losing control of my reactions, desperate for release. “I sucked you off, and, oh fuck, god, yes.”

“You stuck two fingers up my ass,” I said, hoarsely, and bit down on his collarbone. I let myself go then, and rutted against him, while my fingers stroked him to ecstasy.

I came moments after him, and I had time to watch as his slit started spewing and wished I could drink everything down.


	8. The Normal Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio Perlman is a menace, but we knew that already.
> 
> The next chapter will be from Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your lovely comments. I will reply asap, I promise.

Plastered against Oliver’s side, my fingers - sticky with his release - drawing patterns on his stomach and making him shudder: I was in heaven.

“Damn, Elio,” he said, “That was not what we’d agreed.”

“You needed it,” I replied, “You can’t deny it.”

I pointed at the abundant evidence. He closed his eyes and groaned.

“You did it as a sort of social service?”

“Shut up,” I bit the tender skin of his armpit. “You know why _we_ did it.”

“It’s still not a good idea.”

“No longer an idea,” I argued, “It’s a fact now. We had sex and we enjoyed it. And it wasn’t wrong or dangerous.”

We made love, I’d wanted to say, but it wouldn’t do to scare him off so soon.

To lighten up the atmosphere and to prevent him from thinking too much, I started a silly line of questioning.

“Do you ever jack off?” I asked, “Because I don’t remember you producing this much spunk.”

Too on the nose, I pondered. He yanked my nape curls: my head shot back and he ducked down to bruise my lips with a kiss full of teeth and tongue.

If that was to be his reaction, I’d pester him further.

“Do you or don’t you?”

He rolled his eyes, a sure sign that he was caving in.

“Not often. Matters do not usually arise.”

“You can’t get it up?”

That earned me a slap on my ass, which was bare since I’d removed my soiled underpants. My nakedness wasn’t helping the cause of abstinence: sooner or later, probably within the next ten minutes, I’d get hard again if we let things go the way nature intended.

“I told you I don’t care for that anymore. I’m a changed man,” he replied.

“The only change is that you’re even sexier,” I said, causing him to snort loudly.

“Laugh all you like, but that’s the truth. You can call me any time you need a hand.”

“Should I phone you at 5am, when I wake up with a raging case of morning wood?”

Ten minutes was perhaps a conservative estimate: I was already more than half-hard. I glanced down at Oliver’s crotch and had to strangle a whimper.

“Yes, please do,” I choked out, “Day or night, I don’t mind.”

“Phone sex?” he mocked, “Do you do that often?”

I had never done it in my life, since I usually had the common sense of avoiding long distance relationships. In fact, I avoided anything complicated, because Oliver had provided me with enough drama for a lifetime. Except that lifetime must have expired at some stage, since I was ready for more. Oh, so ready, I thought, pressing my hardness against his hip. We hadn’t cleaned up, so it was doubly erotic.

“I’d do it for you,” I murmured, “Anything,” and my fingers closed around his length.

“Fuck,” he moaned, and that was it. He didn’t resist me, he didn’t want to resist.

After another heated session of frottage and two draining orgasms, we’d managed to wipe away the mess and restore some decency: I lent Oliver a pair of oversized sweatpants – they were still short on him, but they would have to do - and I wore a fresh pair of boxers.

“I don’t have an early start tomorrow,” I said, “But I could set the alarm for you.”

“Don’t need it,” he replied, “I always wake up when I want to.”

We fell asleep soon after I’d spooned him, my face pressed between his shoulder blades.

 

I awakened to an empty bed and had a brief panic attack before I was hit by the fragrance of freshly-brewed coffee. The alarm clock said 7.25am.

It was another warm sunny day and I felt great. I didn’t smell as good, but that hardly mattered. Barefoot, I padded to the kitchen and was greeted by the sight of a fully-dressed and neatly combed Oliver. Or should I say Kurt? His posture was different again, less confident, more rigid.

“Morning,” I said, with fake nonchalance.

“Hey,” he replied, studiously avoiding looking me in the face.

I would not be put back inside my box, whichever he thought it was.

“Are you in a hurry?” I asked, pulling him down so that I could kiss him on the lips. He kept them shut, like a sealed envelope.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I’m going to the hospital again then I have some other errands to run.”

I poured myself a cup of Lavazza and mixed in one spoonful of sugar.

Sometimes I drank it bitter, but this wasn’t one of those days. I placed my foot on his: he was wearing a pair of blue Adidas sneakers. I wondered if he still went jogging, so I asked him out loud.

“No, I don’t,” he replied, “I’ve already told you that I am not that person anymore.”

“I don’t have any plans this morning,” I said, pushing my luck, “I could come with you. I’d like to see Ivano again.”

Oliver’s expression was that of a cornered animal.

“You don’t know what you are saying,” he replied, raising his voice, “It’s not always fun and games, Elio. Yesterday he was okay, but his condition won’t get better, you know that, right?”

I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat.

“This bubble you live in,” he continued, tersely, “It’s good and perfect for you, but some people are not as fortunate. Ivano will not heal; there is no magic formula which will make it all go away.”

“You are treating me like a spoiled brat,” I argued, “That’s not fair. I can’t help the parents I have or the way I was brought up. I know I am lucky, but that doesn’t give you permission to lecture me.”

Oliver burst into laughter.

“Kitty has claws,” he joked, tousling my tangled-up hair. “You are right, of course, and I wasn’t being fair to you. But what I mean is that I don’t wish you to be involved in what I do, because most of the time it’s neither pretty nor amusing. We can meet and have dinner, once in a while, if you want.”

I wasn’t gonna let him treat me like some occasional date. I gazed at him: the two top snap fasteners of his shirt were undone; swiftly, I popped the third one and slid my hand inside, clutching his chest hair. He grabbed my arm, but I didn’t let go. We stared into each other’s eyes, like prize-fighters before a match.

“Okay,” he conceded, after a while. “Maybe we need to talk.”

“You think?” I hissed, “Didn’t I say that right from the start? You weren’t listening.”

He smiled, softly.

“I got distracted by your unholy charms,” he said, “And that mouth of yours.”

“What about my mouth?”

I wasn’t above flirting; there was no weapon, legal or illegal, I wouldn’t deploy, so I licked my lips and let my tongue dance around as though it needed fresh air.

“Fucking little demon,” he whispered, shoving his thumb inside my mouth.

I grasped his hand in both of mine and worked his finger like I would have his dick. I sucked and hummed and dribbled on it, until Oliver decided it was enough and replaced his digit with his tongue. We kissed as if the world were on a two days’ countdown.

I was Oliver’s again, and he was mine.

 

 

He had agreed to meet me again the following evening and I had accepted on the one condition that he would spill the beans about his health and about Kurt’s identity. I told him to come to Ariel, the ex-cinema turned _Centro Sociale_ in Via di Monteverde; I went there to play pool with my friends, and it was – I reasoned – the easiest way to introduce Oliver into my world; we had to start from somewhere, why not from a game of billiards inside a disused cinema?

I was going to be busy with my studies, but my mind was straying and I found it very difficult to discipline my thoughts.

After Oliver left, I went back to bed and shamelessly sniffed the sheets. I could still smell him, but it wasn’t Roger & Gallet that he was using. The scent I had picked up at Nash’s place was a product of my imagination.

“Missoni Uomo,” I said to myself. I was quite certain, because I’d gone out with a boy who practically bathed in it. It was a testament to how hypnotized I’d been by Oliver that I had not noticed it while we’d been together.

Well, Oliver might be a changed man, but at least he wasn’t using Drakkar Noir.

 

It was the start of what would be a wonderful spring, as hot as a summer in Northern Italy. The balmy air and lengthening days made me restless and the impending meeting with Oliver/Kurt was weighing heavily on my mind.

It was for these reasons that I accepted an invitation from Sabino and his friend, a drama student named Mauro but known as Divo; the reason for his nickname was his conviction that he would one day become a star. Muvi Star, I thought, with a pang of nostalgia for my home and my parents, and for what had been and could never return.

Divo and his would-be actor friends had occupied a cellar in Via La Spezia and were enacting plays and musicals to earn some money and ‘to bring controversial art to the masses’.

“Did he really say that?” I asked Sabino, who was wearing an electric blue gauze shirt over a pair of white skin-tight trousers.

He shrugged and smeared his lips with peach-coloured lip-gloss.

“You know what he’s like,” he replied, “He even had an argument with Renato once.”

That didn’t surprise me.

“Renato was signing autographs and Divo shouted that he was a sell-out, that his songs were becoming more bourgeois because he wanted to appeal to the Catholics and to the middle-class housewives.”

“That must have gone down well.”

“Actually, Renato was really classy: he told him that he was right, that he probably was a sell-out. And then he added that Divo was there anyway, denigrating him, but still he was there. Better than not being known and not being shouted at, he said.”

I laughed. “That must have shut Divo up for a while.”

“He was fuming all the way back to San Giovanni.”

 

When we got there, the large room was packed and dense with smoke.

I hadn’t even asked what play it was and was shocked when I was given a home-made flyer with the title and outline of the story.

It was called The Normal Heart and it was about the rise of HIV in New York City. The author, Larry Kramer, had used his alter-ego protagonist – Jewish-American writer Ned Weeks - to denounce the ignorance surrounding the disease and raise public awareness. It had been translated into Italian by Divo himself, and though he wasn’t a professional, he’d made a good fist of it. Everything about it was honest and heartfelt and by the end I was in tears.

The conversations between Ned and his lover Felix Turner, the indifference of Ned’s brother, Ben and, at the end, the death of Felix and the pained, guilt-ridden face of a defeated Ned, were like stabs to the heart.

I kept imagining Oliver in the same situation: I didn’t know what had happened to him in New York, but it was likely not to be miles away from what I had just witnessed. Felix had been the love of Ned’s life: would I be able to cope with the possibility that Oliver might also have lost someone he loved more than he could ever love me? I’d have to face it, if I wanted him to be honest with me. In any case, Oliver was here and I would never abandon him.

 

We went for drinks to a Centro Sociale in Pigneto. As usual, there was a subscription fee, but the first drink was included in it.

There was a jukebox playing Italian pop songs, and posters of Pasolini’s and De Sica’s films on the walls.

Divo and Sabino introduced me to the boys who’d played Felix and Ben: they were a couple, both from Rome. Aurelio was my age but had a luscious beard the likes of which I would probably never be able to grow, while his boyfriend Giulio was two years older and blonder than Oliver.

I complimented the three of them and asked Divo how he’d found out about this production.

“I have met Kramer,” he said, “He came to Rome last year and one my teachers introduced us. The play is being staged in London at the Royal Court as we speak. Martin Sheen plays Ned,” he grinned like a maniac. I was very impressed and so was Sabino, who had never taken his friend seriously.

“We have been thinking of asking permission to perform it officially,” he continued.

“And raise money to help find a cure,” said Aurelio, as Giulio looked at him with adoring eyes.

I thought about the San Lorenzo commune and wanted to ask them if they knew about it, but decided against it. They might not wish to publicize its existence, in case somebody from the local authorities got wind of it and kicked them out.

“I think it’s a great idea,” I said, “I could show it to a professional translator; not to say that it isn’t great already, but, you know, just to make it even better. And it would be done for free, of course.”

Divo hooked his arm around my neck and mock-strangled me.

“You are a star,” he said, planting a noisy smacker on my cheek.


	9. Kurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Oliver's POV.
> 
> Warning: mentions of drug use, sex under the influence and HIV testing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a doctor, so please kindly forgive any inaccuracy.
> 
> I have taken my info on HIV testing from online articles, including one very detailed chronicle on the risks of false positives published in 1988 on the Washington Post.

_“Here is Virgil who could the nymphet sing in a single tone, but probably preferred a lad's perineum.”_

This excerpt from Nabokov’s Lolita is why everything started; not the actual start, but the moment I acknowledged I had a problem.

It was February 1984, two months after I had told Elio that I was engaged to be married.

Patching things up with Rachael had been easy, returning to my old routine had been like slipping back into an old, comfortable pair of shoes; forgetting Elio and what I’d done with him had been impossible.

Instead of talking it through with a friend or confessing it to my fiancée, I chose the path of least resistance also known as sweeping thorny issues under the carpet.

My daydreams and memories had to be enough as an escape route, that’s what I’d decided when all other options seemed fraught with pain and uncertainty.

It had worked for a couple of months.

One chilly afternoon in February, I was looking for something to read to counteract the boredom of marking papers; I found Nabokov’s masterpiece, which I’d not read since high school. When I reached the above-mentioned line, it was as though a steel band were closing around my heart.

I had told myself that I liked both sexes, that I was versatile: the man of the future, who chooses personality over anatomy.

What if that had always been a lie and what I’d done was obfuscating the truth because it was too painful to accept? Did I really prefer _a lad’s perineum_?

The word itself was enough to make me shiver; it brought back images of Elio’s sweaty groin; the countless times I’d licked it and smeared it with sloppy kisses; the shameless way I’d latched on to it, making the boy beneath me mewl with pleasure, asking for more, giving me everything he had.

I put the book down and closed my eyes, trying to regain my composure; it was a hopeless exercise, what with my dick being hard and my mind full of indecent thoughts. I jerked off in my study and then in the shower. A few days later, solitary pleasures started to lose their appeal. I needed more.

 

Rachael had started to suspect something was going on. We’d never been an effusive couple, but my coldness was, according to her ‘verging on hostility’.

I had taken to smoking pot and going to gay bars; not the more celebrated haunts in the Village, but the less known joints in Chelsea. One of them, Billy’s, had only just opened, and it was the one I preferred. They served champagne and there was nothing seedy about their decor, although it might be due to the fact that the furnishing were new therefore not likely to be stained with bodily fluids.

It was there that I met Kurt.

 

Before him, there were scores of tricks, occasional fucks, blow-jobs, trysts and on one weird occasion, a session of mutual hand jobs at the back of a nearly empty cinema during a screening of Battleship Potemkin.

I preferred dark-haired young men, pale and slender, but otherwise I wasn’t fussy. My size and my choice of lover designated me as the top and I didn’t argue: most of my needs were met and it was perhaps safer to give rather than receive.

Was I safe? Yes, very, until Kurt I always was. I never let them come inside my mouth, I always wore a condom and I avoided addicts and prostitutes.

 

June that year was as hot in New York as in Athens.

I was losing my mind, bit by bit, trying to keep the two ends of my life together; like with a shirt minus its buttons, it wouldn’t work.

Matters come to a head one stifling Friday evening. Rachael had to work late and I wanted to go out on the prowl, but feared that it would be too risky. She had started to make oblique comments about my frequent absences on flimsy pretexts such as library research or drinks with visiting academics. I stayed at home and drank a bottle of wine, but even that wasn’t enough. When she opened the door to our apartment, I’d just finished my second joint.

The argument was initially quite civil until she accused me of being only half a man.

“You should see a doctor,” she suggested, “I’m going to ask around.”

“I don’t need a shrink. I am perfectly fine.”

“Who mentioned therapy? I was thinking more of a urologist.”

I laughed.

“And why is that?” I taunted her, like she was at fault.

“You know why. You can’t sustain an erection: there, I said it.”

She was flushed and I was livid with rage. It wasn’t directed at her, but she was the only one I could blame other than myself.

“I’m not impotent,” I hissed, “You know what my real problem is?”

“What, that you are not attracted to me, that you are screwing another woman?”

I heard my father’s voice, when he’d told me that I could choose between his way and the highway, and was suddenly too tired to keep fighting.

“No, my problem is that I like sucking cock. No, let me rephrase this: I _love_ sucking cock. That’s who I really am; happy now?”

The discussion turned into an ugly fight and by the end of the night, Rachael had packed up all her stuff and moved out, never to be seen again.

Her parting words had been, “You disgust me, I wish I’d never met you.”

In days to come, I’d look in the mirror and repeat them to myself.

 

The following evening – a dispiritingly sultry Saturday – I was back at Billy’s and met Kurt. I didn’t speak to him, because I was whisked away by a friend, Jay, who was also one of my regular fucks. We knew each other rather well by then and could insert a discussion on politics or the latest Broadway show in between blowjobs. But I had noticed Kurt and he’d noticed me: he was not unlike Elio in size and mannerisms, but he was blond and blue-eyed. I told myself he wasn’t my type, but his shyness had intrigued me.

 

About a week later, on the Friday, he was there again and this time he approached me.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. He had the voice of an adolescent who still hasn’t fully reached adulthood.

“How old are you?” I shot back.

Billy’s rules were fairly relaxed, so I always asked to be on the safe side.

“Over twenty,” he replied. I was to find out that he was twenty and two months, two years older than Elio. Progress, I thought with grim humour.

I let him buy me a large vodka with plenty of ice. He plucked a cube from my glass and sucked it between his pale pink lips: it was corny, maybe, but also really sexy. Another thing I liked about him was that he wasn’t inquisitive and never asked the obvious questions. For instance, he didn’t ask me how old I was until after we’d become lovers.

That night, I took him upstairs in one of the private rooms and undressed him: his body was white and hairless, except for the patch of fur between his legs and the fine down on his calves and forearms. We went down on each other and he insisted I should let him swallow my release. I refused, but the stubborn set of his chin should have warned me that there would be trouble ahead.

 

A month later, we were a couple.

I wasn’t in love, but I liked him a lot and he liked me back. We never spoke of feelings and he didn’t ask me to be exclusive or to move in together. I slept only with him but I suspected he wasn’t as faithful. He was a student and shared his digs with another boy who, according to Kurt, wasn’t and would never be gay.

“Don’t bet on it,” I said, “You would have said the same about me, if you’d met me when I was your age.”

We were in my bed and Kurt was stroking my stomach.

“I want you to fuck me bare,” he said, all of a sudden.

“That’s never gonna happen,” I replied, “I told you already.”

“We could get tested.”

If wasn’t the first time we’d discussed this and it always ended the same way: he would agree it was a bad idea when I reminded him how easy it would be to forget wearing condoms when he was sleeping with other people. He never denied that he was and I was fine with it.

 

Jay and his friends invited us to their bungalow on Fire Island for a long week-end in August.

I’d never been before, but I’d heard what went on there: it was like one continuous orgy, a free-for-all fuelled by drugs and a misguided sense of omnipotence.

Jay had ideas about Kurt which he refused to share with me.

“I don’t want to interfere in your business and I might be wrong. Besides, I know that you are always safe.”

I knew him well enough not to insist. He would tell me in his own time, if he deemed it important.

 

Before then, I had not stayed with Kurt for more than a few hours: he was as slippery as an eel and disappeared for long stretches of time. I didn’t ask him questions; we were there to enjoy ourselves and for me, it wasn’t all about sex.

Jay’s friends organised barbecues and we had parties with dancing and night swimming.

At one such party, I was drinking tequila in my swimming trunks, feet immersed in the water of the swimming pool, when Kurt came to find me.

“Come, I have something to show you,” he said.

He was tanned already and his blond shoulder-length mane was the colour of straw. I was struck by how beautiful he was and yet never as attractive to me as Elio had been. What Elio had, I did not know, but whatever it was, it had ensnared me for good.

 

Kurt took my hand and guided me to a secluded spot on the beach. He had laid down a large towel on top of which were a bottle of whisky and a plastic baggie.

From the latter, he took out two already-rolled joints. He lit one and passed it to me.

“This is real good shit,” he said.

It was; I’d never been that high, not ever so out of control that I didn’t know what I was doing. I felt Kurt’s hands on my dick then his mouth. I could not stop him, I was mad with lust. It was like being caught by the flash of a camera: there were moments of great clarity and others of profound darkness. One crazy instant Kurt was riding me and the next he was on all fours while I slammed into him like a rabid animal. There was Kurt’s ecstatic face and his high-pitched cries mixed with my grunts and the distant crashing of waves. At one point, I was aware of Kurt’s tongue forcing its way up my anus. I felt its tip at the back of my throat, cursed and came for an eternity. Kurt was licking my belly, my ass and everything in between. It was like going to hell and finding out the devil looked like the son of god.

 

When I woke up the following day, Kurt was still dead to the world.

In spite of my pounding head and roiling stomach, I inspected the damage. I was filthy with crusted semen and so was Kurt, but what shocked me was the redness of his backside. It became horribly clear to me that he’d found the way to get what he wanted from me all along.

I shook him awake and he stared at me with defiant eyes, while I hurled all manner of abuse at him. When I was done, he covered himself up with his discarded t-shirt and said, “I always knew you’d find an excuse to ditch me.”

I couldn’t talk to him, I was too angry.

 

Back at the bungalow, I took a shower and drank three cups of black coffee to wash down two aspirins.

When I was calm again, I went to look for Kurt but he was gone.

“I saw him get on a rickshaw,” Jay said. There were no cars on Fire Island, so people who wanted to leave usually hired those so-called pedal cabs.

We hadn’t brought much with us so it wouldn’t have taken him long to pack.

I told Jay what had happened and he nodded.

“I thought he might be dealing and doing drugs, but I wasn’t sure.”

There wasn’t much else to say, so I hugged him goodbye and went back to the city to get tested.

 

The doctor was Jewish and we went to the same synagogue; his name was Goldberg and he wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses that reminded me of Italy.

“Don’t think of it as a death sentence,” he said, “In fact, I’d advise to run the test again. I shouldn’t be saying this,” he smiled wanly, “But this ELISA is not very reliable.”

It took me at least a minute to realise what he’d just implied. I was positive, sick with a deadly virus with no known cure. I agreed to a second test because I was too stunned to object.

My life in between tests was the stuff of nightmares. I lost weight and could barely function: all my resources were spent doing my job, which I couldn’t afford to lose.

The second ELISA also came back positive, but Doctor Goldberg was not satisfied and suggested something called the Western Blot which, he said, was more complicated but also more accurate.

By the time that came out negative, I no longer believed I could ever be healthy again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more about Kurt in the next chapter. I wanted the rest of the story to come out during the conversation between Elio and Oliver.


	10. Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst but things will get better soon, I promise.
> 
> Starting with Elio's POV then Oliver's then Elio's again.
> 
> This chapter was terrible to write but it had to be done. Thanks for your lovely and thoughtful comments. I will reply asap, but please know that I read and appreciate all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: mention of HIV and death caused by it. It's not pleasant but it does not involve Oliver. Oliver is alive and he's going to stay that way.

 

I had read in books of characters being petrified upon witnessing some shocking act, but I’d never considered it could happen in real life.

Oliver’s story had stunned me, and I felt as though my muscles were paralysed and the planes of my face were carved from stone.

“I am so sorry,” I said, caressing Oliver’s hand. I wanted to curse the man who had done that to him, and maybe find him and hurt him, but I suspected that my intervention wasn’t needed.

We had met outside Ariel, but I had arrived before him in order to case the joint: my friends weren’t there, but I knew most of the regulars by sight. The pool tables were busy and the main room was thick with smoke.

As soon as Oliver arrived – grey t-shirt, black jeans, two days’ beard, preoccupied eyes – I took him to the side entrance which led upstairs to what had been the projectionist’s booth. It was kept unlocked, since there was nothing left to steal.

“I’ll get us two beers,” I said, leaving Oliver there, sat on a straw-back chair; a lost soul marooned on a desert island.

When I returned, he was smoking with an impish smile on his lips.

“No one was allowed to light up in here,” he said, “Too dangerous for the films.”

I handed him the bottle of Ceres and he clinked it against mine.

“Why aren’t we downstairs playing pool?” he asked.

“Later,” I replied, with a knowing smirk, “You got something to tell me first.”

We could have done this in the privacy of my home, but my instincts told me that it would have been a mistake. It had always been my place, my villa, my bed, my _heaven_ , and look where it had brought us; where it had brought Oliver. I had to disappear a little, play a supporting role.

He offered me his pack of Marlboro and I shook out one, which he lit with a battered BIC lighter.

“Are you sure you really want to know?” he enquired, scratching the stubble at the corner of his mouth. I had licked it two nights ago and still felt its prickly sting on the tip of my tongue. If I wanted it again and for years to come, there could only be an answer to Oliver’s question.

It was to be the longest hour I’d ever lived through, longer even than the gruelling oral exam for my Diploma.

 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, gazing into a distance which consisted of dusty tables and empty beer-crates. “I should have asked him questions, but I didn’t because it was easier for me not to know.”

“You are not trying to justify what he did,” I spat out.

He offered me a forlorn grin.

“I wish it were that simple,” he replied, “You see, Elio, there are no winners in this story. I built an imaginary Kurt in my head and I never wanted to know what he was really like. That boy who partied and slept with his friends, who wanted me with no strings attached, that boy suited me down to the ground because I could be with him and pretend to be with...somebody else.”

“With me,” I whispered.

“It’s pathetic, I know,” he said, “But it worked until, of course, it didn’t.”

Before comforting him, I had to extract the rest of his truth from him, like the rusty needle it was.

“Did you see him again?”

Oliver took a swig from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was hairy and slightly tanned; I wanted it on my tummy and between my legs.

“Yes,” he replied, “It was after my second ELISA test.”

 

***

It was a Sunday in mid-October and I was freezing cold all the time. I was running myself a bath when I heard a knock at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone and I was planning to polish off a bottle of gin and pass out in front of the TV. I went to see who it was: a young man older than Kurt and younger than me, with scared eyes and acne on his forehead.

“I’m Lenny, Kurt’s housemate,” he said, “Kurt’s in trouble, I think.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

I invited him in because I didn’t want my neighbours to find out about my business.

“He’s disappeared and has stolen some money which belongs to a pusher, a guy named Carlos; he’s part of a gang with links to the Italian _mala vita_ , or so I’ve heard.”

“Come on, that’s just ridiculous. Kurt’s probably found himself a trick with money and he’s sunning his ass in LA or Miami; either way, I don’t care and I don’t see why you are looking for him here.”

“He mentioned your name and where you lived,” Lenny replied, “In case of emergency.”

“Are you fucking him?” I asked.

“I am not gay,” he replied. Well, at least Kurt had not lied about that.

I kicked him out, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d told me. If Lenny knew where I lived, then this Carlos could easily find out and make my life even more of a hell than it already was.

I went back to Billy’s – where I had not set foot since August – and asked a few people I knew, including Jay, if they had heard anything about Kurt.

There were stories, Jay said, now more than before. Ever since the episode on Fire Island, rumours had become more insistent: Kurt was selling his gear to other students, Kurt was a high-end prostitute, Kurt was dying of AIDS in some godforsaken rat-infested corner of Hell’s Kitchen; the latter was the version closest to the truth.

In the end, it was Lenny who found him, with the help of a couple of students whom Kurt had used to supply. It was a rare sunny day at the start of November and I only had classes in the morning. Lenny was waiting for me outside my building.

“He wants to see you,” he said, “Please come. I don’t think he’s got long to live.”

Numb as I had been since my first positive test result, those words went straight to my guts. They made everything real, imminent, inescapable. The rage I’d nursed was gone, because a boy whose life should have been ahead of him was dying, and no matter what he’d done to me, it wasn’t his fault that he’d caught this plague.

He had refused to be hospitalised again and was staying with a group of junkies.

As soon as he set eyes on me, I knew Lenny had lied.

“Why are you here?” he said, with a thin, unsteady voice. He coughed and his frail chest rattled as though it was filled with broken bones. There was crusted blood on his lips and under his livid nails.

Many nights I’d lain awake thinking of what was going to happen to me and now I saw my future lying on that filthy bunk.

“I’m taking you home with me,” I replied. I would not let him die there, a ruin among ruins.

“They need me,” he argued, in between bouts of coughing. He had a high temperature and his throat was aching.

It turned out that he’d supplied his ‘friends’ with drugs that he got from Carlos in exchange for sex. I told him that there was no chance of that happening again, not in the state he was in. He smiled, the ghost of the sweet grin he’d used to flash at me. “Carlos is sick too,” he said, “He used to boast that he was immortal, because he prayed every night to the _Madonna di Fatima_.”

Lenny helped me carry Kurt downstairs and into a car I’d hired just in case, since I was sure no taxi was gonna drive a man in his condition.

Once home, I installed him in my bedroom while I slept on the sofa.

I called Doctor Goldberg and he agreed to help us out without involving the hospital. He said there was nothing more to do but palliative care and antibiotics.

Lenny stayed with Kurt during the day, until I came back from work.

He died two days before Christmas, forty-six days since he’d come to stay with me.

We seldom talked of our time together, when we’d been lovers. And I didn’t think of myself as a human being with desires and needs: those days had gone forever.

Once, after we’d listened to carol singing on the radio, he spoke of that night at Fire Island.

“I wanted to have you, all of you, at least once,” he said, “Everybody says it’s only the bottom that gets it and I didn’t care.”

I hadn’t told him about my test results; I didn’t see the point of burdening him with pointless guilt.

“Why didn’t you care?” I asked, pressing a cold flannel to his burning forehead.

“I don’t have a family, I don’t have anyone,” he replied, “So I had to lie all the time; invent a version of myself you and the others wouldn’t feel sorry for. I was tired of lying, you know?”

“Yes, I know,” I said, and we understood one another, deeply, for the first time.

I had hurt him with my indifference and maybe I’d hurt Elio too, in a similar way.

On balance, my faults were worse than Kurt’s because his at least were dictated by misguided love while mine were the result of egotism and cold-heartedness.

After Kurt passed away, I wrote to Rachael and apologised for the way I had treated her. From Vimini, I found out that Elio had been accepted to the Conservatory in Rome. He had been there since November, which was when I had found Kurt again. The two events appeared to be linked by some kind of serendipity, and in my heart and mind I knew then that Rome would be where I would choose to end my days.

***

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Oliver was saying, while he caressed my face and wiped away my tears. I was sobbing like when he’d found me with that defiled peach, but this time I gained no solace from it. I hurt everywhere, but my chest ached the worst. I hated that while I’d been living the _dolce vita_ , Oliver had been suffering so badly: he had feared death and had been witnessing it, day and night.

“I don’t want you to die,” I cried, “You are going to take another test and another and then another again, until you are sure of being healthy. What’s your T-cell count?”

I was sitting in his lap and he was petting me as though I was a child, but when I asked him that question, he frowned.

“High enough, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“If you have a thousand, it means that you are not sick.”

“So they say, but I don’t believe them.”

“It’s almost two years after you got tested the first time,” I argued. “You have lost weight, but aside from that you’re fine.”

“Maybe I’m just carrying it, like some messenger of death,” he said.

“That’s bullshit! You are either positive or negative, that much I know.”

His expression hardened.

“No one knows, that’s what they don’t tell you. Even this cure they are trialling, some say its side effects would kill you same as the virus if not worse.”

I could no longer stand being in a semi-public place.

“We are going to my place. I’ll find us a taxi.”

“I have a car,” he said, “I’ll park it on the Lungotevere and we’ll walk to Trastevere. Or I could drop you there and come back.”

I shook my head, “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

The only other time I’d seen Oliver drive was on the way back from our excursion to Lake Garda with my father. I had been more than half-hard for most of the journey: I’d attributed my arousal to the prospect of having sex with Marzia, but the real cause had been Oliver’s proximity, his unbuttoned shirt, the briny scent emanating from his body. I looked at him now, at the wheel of a red Ford Escort, and felt the need to make him smile.

“You are driving an Escort,” I said.

He rolled his eyes, “I’m laughing on the inside,” he sighed.

“Good,” I replied, stroking his hair.


	11. Lucky Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver spills yet more beans.
> 
> Elio's POV then Oliver's then Elio's again.
> 
> I promise that there will be smut in the next chapter....

It took Oliver a while to find a free parking spot and by the time I unlocked the door to my apartment, I was seething with impatience. It had not been a long drive, but we’d spent it in near silence, since I didn’t want to question him while he was at the wheel and my mind could not shift gears as easily as his car.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, “I have bought some _bresaola_. I could prepare a couple of sandwiches.”

“Sounds good,” he replied, “But let me do it. Unless you don’t want me to, in case, you know,” he waved his hand in the direction of the cutlery tray.

I felt the blood rush to my head.

“You better not be saying what I think you are saying.”

“Even a paper cut might be dangerous,” he replied, looking down at the counter.

“Bullshit,” I said, “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Let me go wash my hands then, if that’s allowed,” he smiled, softly.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You weren’t joking when you said you wouldn’t let me out of your sight,” he said.

“What gave you the impression that I was joking?”

He chuckled and ruffled my curls.

After having eaten our excellent _panini_ with salted beef, _cornichons_ and Dijon mustard, and having washed them down with beer, we sat on the couch and resumed our discussion. Oliver looked a lot better already and I wondered whether he was short of money and unable to buy decent food or whether he spent it all on his ‘friends’.

“What happened to your book, did you finally get it published?”

He grimaced, as though I’d poked a wound.

“No,” he sighed, “At first I was just stalling and then when I met Kurt, I was too elated to care. Afterwards, when I found out I was positive, nothing seemed to matter anymore. Death was just around the corner, and all those Ancient Greeks, with their dusty words and their risible concerns were as far removed from me as the moon.”

“And what about your job, I thought you loved it.”

Oliver shook his head.

“I couldn’t look my students in the eyes and pretend everything was unchanged. Among them, some must have been gay and maybe, like me, they were afraid for their lives; but they couldn’t talk to me and I could not talk to them. I reached a point when everything seemed like a pantomime; when I was only going through the motions while my mind and heart were otherwise engaged.”

 

***

 

Lenny had told me about Carlos and his links to the Italian criminal underworld, but I had not fully believed him; it wasn’t that I thought he’d lied, but rather that I imagined Kurt to have exaggerated. Because he had been dishonest with me, I attributed to him all kinds of ruses and mystifications. After Kurt’s funeral, which was a rushed, poorly-attended affair for which I paid in full, the new year started as bleakly as the old one had ended.  I no longer had Kurt waiting for me at home and, as bad as it sounds, I missed having to care for somebody other than myself.

One week-end I was so down in the dumps that I went back to the slum where I’d found Kurt. His junkie friends were still there, some of them nearly skeletal.

There was this one girl, Amy: she must have been really young despite the ageing effect of the drugs; she was wearing three coats and still shivering.

“You gotta get us some,” she said, in a rasping voice that already reminded one of death.

“It’s out of the question,” I replied, “Besides I wouldn’t know where from. I don’t do drugs, never have never will.” I had purchased weed from one of the bartenders at Billy’s but that’s all he sold and even that only occasionally.

“Smug bastard,” she sneered, “If you’ve come here to try and covert us, you can just fuck off back to where you came from.”

I would have done just as she asked, if she hadn’t fainted at my feet then seized up with what to my limited knowledge seemed like an attack of epilepsy.

“She needs her dose and the doc won’t give us methadone no more,” her friend Trish said. Together, we carried Amy back to her bunk; the sheets were grey and I didn’t have the stomach to inspect them too closely.

“If you could go to Carlos,” Trish said, after her friend had calmed down, “I have some money, but I won’t go there; none of us would, it’s too dangerous.”

“And it wouldn’t be for me?”

She snorted.

“Look at you,” Trish said, “You are built like a mountain. Plus it’s clear you are no junkie. Do it just this one time, please.”

I should have said no, but I was convinced I was going to die anyway; maybe this would be a speedier way to go, and a more adventurous one; better than waiting day after day for the first signs of decay to appear on my skin or my genitals.

“Kurt said Carlos was sick too,” I argued, “He may be dead already.”

“I doubt it,” Trish said, “But in that case, some other son a bitch must have taken his place.”

She explained to me where to find Carlos: some car-park in the meat-packing district; where I wouldn’t have set foot if they’d paid me. And there I went, intending to buy heroin.

Trish advised me to dress shabbily and to keep the money in a place other than a pocket or a wallet. I wore a leather jacket and a pair of ripped blue jeans. The bills went into a plastic envelope which I scotch-taped to my stomach.

I was to go to a cubby-hole next to the entrance and enquire if they sold cigarettes. They’d ask me which brand and my reply should be Lucky Strike. It was like the plot of a trite spy story, but when I got there, there was nothing to laugh about.

There were rats scuttling among the garbage and very feeble street lights. I had the impression that dozens of eyes were staring at me and kept expecting to be knifed in the back. I found the booth quite easily, but it was unmanned. There was a dirty, hand-written notice gummed to the window; it said “be back in 5”.

There were only a handful of cars, but no one entered or exited while I was there. While I waited, I smoke a cigarette then lit a second one from the butt of the first. The man appeared all of a sudden, after banging a steel door which led to the fire escape. He was short and swarthy, with a mean mouth and shiny black hair. He was about my age and if he was sick, he didn’t look it; but then again, you could have said the same about me.

He took his time getting back inside and once there, he ignored me for a long while.

“What ya want?” he asked, when I was already losing hope.

I did as told and when I named the famous brand of cigarettes, he gave me a wide smile and said, “Carlos was right, you are a looker.”

I was too stunned to speak and he misunderstood me.

“Dude, don’t worry, I won’t bite. You ain’t got the type of meat I like, if you see what I mean.”

There and then, I decided that the best course of action was to keep lying.

“Is Carlos...?” I enquired, and the man’s eyes darkened.

“Shitting his bed like a baby,” he murmured, “Mom has bought a statue of the Madonna of Fatima; it’s as tall as me. I told her it’s no good, but she won’t listen. Fucking plague,” he spat on the floor.

I had removed my Star of David after Kurt’s death and now I was glad of it. I wanted this man to believe I was on his side: Catholics and Jews aren’t always the best of friends.

It was Carlo’s (his name was Carlo, not Carlos, I was told) older brother Enzo who sold me the drugs; he thought he was selling them to Kurt and I wasn’t going to disabuse him, not when it was much safer for me if he didn’t know my real name.

It started as a favour to someone who had been Kurt’s friend and my mistake was to believe that I could do it only once and then stop at will.

That way, I wasn’t unlike the junkies I was supplying: always swearing it was the last time, always coming back for more.

Before, I’d had no life outside the class-room; I had dropped my old friends one by one and as for Billy’s, I didn’t see the point of going there if I wasn’t looking for tricks. I might be many things, but I was never a voyeur.

I wasn’t selling drugs to kids, I was only the go-between: that seemed less immoral, and since I was going to hell anyway, might as well be of some use in the interim.

Carlo had a bad case of toxoplasmosis: he could no longer speak and he died in the spring. Enzo never enquired why I didn’t ask to see his brother: one thing was the knowledge that Carlo was a homosexual, but quite another was admitting the living proof of it inside his house, which was regularly blessed by a Catholic priest before Easter. He treated me like a close friend, but we didn’t know anything about one another; he trusted me because of Carlo, and he never found out that I wasn’t Kurt and that Kurt was dead.

 

***

The Oliver sitting next to me wasn’t the Oliver I had met in the summer of 1983: he had told me from the start, but only now I realised how true that statement was.

I stared at him and wondered how he could still love me, considering what he’d gone through.

“Did you leave your regular job to become a drug dealer?” I asked him.

He shook his head and reached out to touch my face; he stopped mid-way and scratched his beard instead.

“I wasn’t making any money from it,” he said, “That’s not why I was doing it. Enzo’s family had connections. These junkies and their friends were not insured; they couldn’t get decent assistance and would have died in squalor.”

“The Robin Hood of Hell’s Kitchen,” I joked. “But how did you survive?”

Oliver bit the inside of his cheek. Despite having told me the worst about his past, there was something he was still unwilling to confess.

I grabbed his hand, brought it to my lips and kissed its palm.

“I will find out sooner or later,” I warned him.

“Yeah, I know,” he drew a deep breath and I feared the worst.

Kurt had been a prostitute, at least with Carlo: he had exchanged drugs for sex. Or maybe that wasn’t the truth; maybe they’d loved each other or at least there had been a bond of affection between them. But what if Oliver, seeing that was he was already infected, had decided to give himself away for money?

“Tell me or I will scream,” I said.

“I’ve become a translator, with the help of your mother.”

Of course, I thought. They all knew, apart from me.

I got up and went to the window. I opened the shutters, breathed in the warm, spicy air and listened to the distant chatter of people walking by: it was the same as every other evening; ordinary lives, ordinary preoccupations.

A choice lay before me: I could continue to exist in this softly-lit limbo or I could step out of it and into a much more complex world. I suddenly felt very young and stupid: with all my trysts with girls and boys, I’d never come across anything more challenging than the exam of admission to a music school.

Behind me, Oliver was probably getting restless.

I turned round, catching him in the act of lighting a cigarette.

“Lucky Strike,” I said, and he came up to me and wrapped me in his arms.


	12. Upside Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smutty smut, from Elio's POV
> 
> Elio is going full Casanova here and Oliver doesn't stand a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and commenting, my dudes: I know it's hard reading and not too cheerful and sometimes downright depressing, but it will get better. In any case, these two are together now, so Oliver is no longer facing his destiny on his own.

Oliver was staring at my face, fearing the worst.

“Look, your mother didn’t know anything about my situation. She never asked and I didn’t tell her why I’d left my job,” he said.

I pressed a finger to his lips.

“I don’t care,” I replied, “I’m just glad that she was there for you when you needed her. It makes it slightly better for me to know that when you thought of asking for help, you came to us.”

Oliver’s eyes seemed wider now that his face was more angular; those bright blue eyes I loved so much were humid with tears.

“I thought you’d be angry that we went behind your back.”

I stroked the hollow beneath his cheekbone with my thumb.

“I might have been, once, but not anymore. You said that you’ve changed but so have I. What would be the point of rehashing the past when we have the present and the future to deal with?”

He smiled and a tear slid down to the corner of his mouth; I wiped it away.

“You always were wise,” he joked then turned serious again. “Dealing drugs is a terrible thing, I know, but you have no idea what they’d do for a hit; they’d use and re-use needles and fuck without protection,” he shook his head, with some violence, “The virus was spreading like wildfire and I thought I could do something other than writing angry letters to _The New York Native_ or protesting outside some politician’s office.”

“I’m not judging you,” I told him, “I don’t know what I would have done, in your shoes.”

“It was too late for Amy,” he said, “But Trish got clean. We got her on methadone first and when she took the test and found out she was negative, she was so relieved that she promised to stick it out. Last thing I have heard she was working in a rehab clinic.”

“She might have died if you hadn’t been there.”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, “It’s like all my values have been turned upside down.”

“Boy you turn me,” I sang, to the music of Diana Ross' lyrics, “Upside down and inside out.”

He laughed, “You idiot.”

“Time for a little fun, what do you say?” I pulled him closer and slid one hand underneath his t-shirt; his abdomen contracted when it came into contact with my fingers.

“This is such a terrible idea,” he replied, “You should stay away from me. I’m only bad news and you have so much going for you.”

I didn’t want to discuss; we had already gone through the entire gamut of emotions and I knew he needed to let some of them out; besides, I yearned for him to understand that we were bonded together and to admit that he wanted me as much as I craved him. I also realised that I had to waylay him with sensations rather than by using logic and rationality, since those were against me.

I pulled him towards my bed and he didn’t put up any resistance.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” he said.

“Not asking you to,” I murmured, as I sat him down and straddled his lap. I scooted back until I was sitting on his thighs. “Hmm, I like this,” I hummed, pressing my lips to his neck, sucking on it, softly. His hands gripped my lower back and I stifled a smile. “Can I mark you a little?” I asked, nuzzling his earlobe.

“What, why?” he enquired, sounding lost already.

I caressed and squeezed his biceps - licking my lips - then looked into his eyes.

“Because,” I said, enunciating every word, “I want the world to know that you are mine.” And before he could utter a reply, I shoved my tongue into his mouth.

He hesitated for a moment then his hands came up to my neck and he was responding in kind. He tasted of beer and smoke but I kept getting distracted by the feel of his chest, hard against mine. There were too many layers of fabric between us, that wouldn’t do.

“Off and off and off,” I urged, yanking the hem of his top. He got the message and discarded it quickly, while I did the same with mine. I spent a second admiring his bare chest and the blush that was spreading upon it but I couldn’t stay away for long. “Yes, yes, oh god, hmm, so good,” I was muttering, while I plastered my front to his, grinding into him to increase the heavenly friction. When his furry hairs brushed against my nipples, the pleasure became almost unbearable.

“Here?” I asked, indicating the juncture between neck and shoulder. Oliver was too far gone to understand so I brought my lips to the spot in question.

“Yes,” he rasped, “But don’t draw blood.”

“I’ll be careful,” I whispered, and went for it like an amateur vampire.

I had done most things in bed with Oliver, but never this, because at the time I still cared about not being found out; I’d never known how much he enjoyed being marked. Maybe it was a kink of his, but I preferred to believe that it was my bruises only that he desired, the evidence of my caresses on his skin.

I laid him down and spread him out, removed his clothes and mine, except for our underpants.

After his neck, I moved down to his sternum and from there to below his navel. By then, Oliver was moaning and writhing, and his boxers were tented and wet. I was as desperate, and had been rubbing against Oliver’s body to ease the discomfort. This precarious balance was overthrown when I pushed the elastic of his underpants aside to suck on the fold between groin and thigh. I wasn’t ready for his reaction and nearly got a nosebleed out of it.

“Fuck, Elio, what, oh fuck,” he sobbed, thrusting his pelvis up. I pinned his hips to the mattress and blew hot breaths inside the opening of his boxers. I was so close I could smell his juices; my mouth watered: it had been so long since he’d come down my throat, but I still remembered the taste. I knew that if I licked him there, I’d ruin everything, so I smeared a sloppy kiss to his inner thigh and allowed him to calm down; I admired the result of my efforts, the map of love bruises that had flowered on his skin: I wanted him so much, I had to have him.

 

“I didn’t know that you liked that,” I told him, a few minutes later.

We were lying on the bed and I was spooning him from behind. 

I had a plan, but it required Oliver’s compliance and for that I would have to seduce him all over again. The idea excited and intrigued me: I had been so callow when he had burst into my life, but now I was older and I was more in tune with my desires; I no longer let my own pleasure guide me, but let my partner’s dictate the rules of our bliss, or at least I was skilled enough to let them believe as much.

“It was a first for me too,” he replied.

“We’ve had lots of firsts together,” I murmured. “Remember when you let me kiss you here?” I asked, brushing the cleft of his ass with my fingertips.

“Yeah, that was something,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.

“It really was,” I stroked him harder, forcing the fabric in between his buttocks, “You came just from that.”

Oliver was pushing back into me; he was trying to check himself, but in vain.

“You were so good,” he husked.

“I loved eating you up,” I said, circling his clothed hole with my thumb, “I thought you’d find it disgusting because I was drooling all over you.”

“Talented boy,” he murmured, arching his back.

“Your talented boy,” I replied, biting lightly on his shoulder-blade, “All yours, only yours.”

“I wish,” he was panting now, “I could give you more, everything.”

“And I wish I could be inside you,” I whispered back, “Any part of me,” I added, adding my forefinger to my thumb.

There was a suspended instant in which he froze and I held my breath, but he wanted it too much to deny himself again.

“No mouth,” he said, and I nodded, my eyes hazy and the blood already whistling in my ears. I kissed him deeply, our tongues sloppy and fat, then I pulled his boxers down and as he kicked them away, I removed mine too. I slicked my hands with lube and breached him with the tip of my middle finger. His rim twitched and he let out a low whimper.

“More,” he begged, and I reached around and rubbed his dick. He cursed and called out my name. I wasn’t going to disappoint him.

“Take it,” I hissed, “Take it all,” and stuck my digit in, burying it inside him, down to its knuckle, while I squeezed his cockhead with my other hand.

My balls were throbbing, but I clenched my teeth and concentrated on Oliver, on his sweaty, pulsating body and the noises he was making, the groans and whines and cries of his ecstasy. I inserted a second finger and fucked him with this makeshift dick, in and out, seeking and finding his sweet spot, eliciting the lewdest encouragements from his scratchy throat together with the gentlest compliments.

“Say that you are mine,” I urged him, when I felt his orgasm approach, “Say it.”

“Yes, yes,” he cried, “Yours, all yours, fuck, yes, yes,” and he shot ribbons of delicious spunk which I could not get at with my avid mouth, but that I inhaled as though it were oxygen.

I came all over his stomach, like he begged me to, and I saw how much he wanted some of it on his tongue, but that wouldn’t have been fair, and he was always and always would be a considerate lover.

 

After showering and scrubbing away every trace of our lovemaking, Oliver was ready to get dressed and head home. I had other ideas.

“You hair is still wet,” I said, combing it with my fingers.

“It’s practically summer weather, and anyway I am driving.”

“We haven’t talked,” I sulked. I was wearing only a towel around my hips, my curls were soaked and droplets were trickling down on to my face and torso. Oliver was not unmoved by the sight, I considered.

“I don’t want to leave Rico alone again,” he said, “He’s getting worse and when he’s vomiting, sometimes he passes out. It’s too risky.”

“Is there somebody with him now?”

He explained that they had a woman who did the cleaning for them and since she was a retired nurse, she also looked after Rico.

“I’ll come with you,” I offered. He wasn’t convinced, but I could see that he was tempted.

“Let me put something on,” I insisted, and let the towel drop to the floor. Oliver stared at me then burst into laughter.

“You are a shameless tease,” he joked.

I grabbed a pair of shorts and wiggled my ass as I put them on.

“I never tease,” I replied, “And besides, everything is fair in love and war.”

He zipped up his trousers and smirked, “The trouble is that with you I never know if it’s one or the other.”

I pretended to be offended. “Who, _moi_? I come in peace, my dear.”

“That you certainly did,” he said, as he laced his shoes.

“I could go again,” I countered, silkily, “I’d love to see where you sleep.”

A troubling thought clouded my mirth: what if he slept with Rico, even if only in a platonic way?

“It’s not grand, I warn you: the bed broke a few months ago, so the mattress is on the floor.”

“How did it break?” I enquired, with a lightness of tone that didn’t fool anyone.

Oliver snorted, “Not in the manner you are suggesting,” he said, “I guess it couldn’t stand my weight.”

“I don’t care, as long as we are alone.”

He gave me an eye-roll.

“Rico and I are only friends, I told you already.”

“Maybe I forgot.”

“Yeah, sure,” he sighed, but his eyes had lost the sadness which had clouded them before. “Just call me Kurt okay? I don’t want Rico to think that I’ve lied to him.”

“You have, in a way. But okay, I don’t mind. It’s quite thrilling, like sleeping with your twin brother.”

Oliver chuckled merrily.

“Sick and twisted,” he said, and I happily concurred.


	13. Dead Ringers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio is into Kurt, big time.
> 
> More smut, because why not?
> 
> Elio's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bank of the Vatican (the IOR) was embroiled in a number of notorious scandals in the 80s, including the death of banker Roberto Calvi, who was found hanging from London's Blackfriars Bridge. The free-masons were allegedly involved in that murder too.

 

I was never one to react immediately to shocks, whether they were good or bad.

When Oliver and I had kissed for the first time, it had seemed almost irrelevant, like an experiment that I was conducting in the third person. After riding home and having lunch, when Oliver’s questing foot had caressed mine, only then was I hit by the magnitude of what had happened between us. My nosebleed was the visible proof of that sudden rush of blood to the head, the realisation that Oliver was no longer a stranger, but a potential lover.

In a similar sequence of events, it was only while we were driving towards the Balduina that the effect of Oliver’s confession washed over me; wave upon wave of panic engulfed me. I didn’t wish him to notice, so I stared out the half-open car window and smoked a cigarette.

He was silent too, and I wondered whether he’d regretted having spilled the beans. It wasn’t going to be easy, for either of us. He might have been lonely and desperate, but he had learned to live with his misery; I was asking him to poke a beast he had lulled into a drunken stupor. As for me, it was all well and good to be generous and liberal with words, quite another to stand by a man who sold drugs to the rich so that he could provide them for free to the poor. I knew one couldn’t just paint the world in black and white, but this shade of grey wasn’t the hue I’d ever imagine to associate with someone like Oliver. Knight in shining armour Oliver, infallible and unbreakable Oliver: had I only fallen for him because I thought he was so far above me? Was I still so shallow?

I stole a glance at him: his face in profile was gaunter than it had been, but there was a softness in him which had not been there before, a vulnerability that made him more accessible and yet even more desirable. I had to look away or I’d whimper for the need to kiss him all over. There was my answer: nothing could change what I felt for Oliver, it was as immutable as the constellations.

A life together was only possible if we were honest with each other, so I had to start admitting that we couldn’t be only friends, or even friends with sex, because that was never going to work between us.

“We can’t be friends,” I said, throwing out the spent fag-end.

He chuckled, “You got there in the end.”

“No, I mean it. I thought I could just, you know, let things be, but I can’t.”

“Elio, dear, you’ve never ‘let things be’ in your life,” he mocked, “You probe then you ask then you demand and finally you make it impossible not to be thoroughly annoyed with you.”

“Are you annoyed with me?”

We were flirting again and I loved it.

“Utterly,” he replied, looking at me with disarming fondness, “I have been annoyed with you for years. I was so irritated that everything else seemed bland in comparison.”

“I had the same problem,” I said.

“What, you couldn’t find a suitable victim?”

I placed my hand on his thigh and squeezed.

“There’s only one of you in the world.”

He swallowed, making his Adam’s apple bob. I wanted to lick it, to brush my lips over it.

 

The apartment came with a parking spot and from the garage we took the elevator to the second floor. The key was a big affair which looked positively medieval.

Inside, the lights were on and I could hear the distant noise of a TV or maybe a radio. Oliver had explained to me that the cleaner slash nurse would have left already, so I was surprised not to see Rico in the front room waiting for Kurt.

“He may be asleep,” Oliver – no, sorry, wrong name – Kurt said. “The pills he takes, when he remembers to take them, often knock him out. Let me go check on him. If you want a drink, you know where the kitchen is,” he smirked, probably remembering the kiss we had shared in that room.

He opened a door at the far end of the salon and closed it behind him.

I wasn’t thirsty, but I was curious about the papers on Kurt’s desk. The first time I’d been here, I’d wondered whether he was still writing his novel, but now that I knew about his occupation, I was curious as to what sort of material he was translating. And then it came to me, in a flash of clarity: I could put him in contact with Divo and he could revise my friend’s ersatz translation of The Normal Heart. He could get in touch with the author: as little as I knew about Kramer, I gathered that he and Oliver shared the same anger at the apathy and disinterest which surrounded the AIDS crisis. If he had a cause to pursue, he might stop believing that he was about to die. I knew that he wasn’t, but I had to convince him too.

From what I could evince, he was translating into English a novel by an Italian author I’d never heard of. I made a note of the title – Lunaria – so that I could question Kurt about it. “And irritate him some more,” I said, out loud.

A few minutes later, he returned: I noticed that he smelled strongly of disinfectant and that he’d changed his top.

“There was a bit of an accident,” he explained, “But he’s asleep now. Let me just bring him some water and lemonade. He’s usually very thirsty when he wakes up after being sick.”

I nodded and waited as he absolved his duties, after which he led me to his bedroom. Along the way, he showed me his bathroom too, which, he said, he didn’t share with Rico since he had his own en suite.

“Is this his apartment?” I asked.

“No, it belongs to Enzo’s family. You see how decrepit everything is: they never rented it out before.”

“Money laundering through the acquisition of property,” I said, “Fascinating.”

Kurt blushed and clenched his jaw. Not a clever thing to say, but I had vowed to be honest.

“It’s not like the Vatican haven’t done the same or worse with their bank,” I added, to soften the blow.

“I should get out of here, I know,” he said, “But I honestly didn’t believe I’d survive this long and I planned to turn this place into a sort of hospice. The commune is great for what it is, but it would take just one word from the local authorities to shut it down. And no, I don’t want to involve the New York mafia in the affairs of the _Regione Lazio._ ”

I giggled, despite the seriousness of the conversation. It was all so absurd: Oliver and I – fuck Kurt, this was my Oliver – having a discussion straight out of a Coppola screenplay. He smiled and cupped my face with his hands.

“You are such a strange kid,” he whispered.

“Your strange kid,” I whispered back, sticking out my tongue to lick his thumb, which was rubbing the corner of my mouth.

He hissed and in the dim light of the corridor I discerned the same expression I had seen on Oliver’s face when he’d realised what I had done to that peach: a mixture of intrigue, amusement and lust.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked.

“Not in the least,” I replied, “You?”

“I’m used to staying up,” he said, “I do some of my best work, at night.”

“That is definitely true.”

He gave me a playful slap on the cheek, “Get in there, you pervert.”

I fell in love with Kurt’s bedroom at first sight: the mattress was resting on a faded Turkish rag which in turn was spread over the worn parquet floor. The walls were a couple of shades darker than his eyes. There was a framed reproduction of the Madonna of Fatima above the place where the headboard should have been. The furniture was dated but sturdy and of good quality. There were books and magazines inside two orange crates that someone had painted chalk-white. The air smelled faintly of Missoni Uomo and wood-polish.

“I like it,” I said, “a lot.”

“The bathroom is awful, but it’s got a huge tub, big enough for me.”

He showed it to me and he was right: there was greenish porcelain everywhere, and purplish tiles on the walls. There was a huge mirrored cabinet above the washbasin which reminded me of a horror movie. I shuddered and Oliver laughed “I told you so,” he said.

“We could take a bath together, one of these days,” I replied, because no matter how depressing that room was it could always be improved by having sex inside it.

“Sure,” he smiled, “There are loads of spare toothbrushes in the cabinet, if you dare open it; clean towels on that shelf.”

He turned to go out but I stopped him.

“I would like you to stay.”

“Are you afraid of the bathroom?” he joked.

“No, I just want us to go back to being what we were.”

In Bergamo, we had shed all vestiges of privacy and banished shame.

“Okay,” he said, hesitating only a moment before he unzipped his jeans, dropped them and his boxers, took his dick in hand and aimed for the bowl. I was like a kid watching fireworks for the first time: I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He must have known that I was staring, but he acted as though he was alone. When he was done, he flushed the toilet then came up to the sink to wash his hands. Only then he met my gaze in the cabinet mirror.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

My mouth was dry, so I nodded. There was no way I could relieve myself, so I brushed my teeth and cleaned my face and hands instead.

 

In bed, with only the flicker of the night-light to illuminate the scene, I felt bold again. I stroked and kissed Oliver’s chest, while he caressed my hair and my neck.

“What would Kurt do,” I murmured, “If he was allowed to, I mean.”

“Same as anyone fortunate enough to have you in their arms,” he replied.

I bit his nipple and he tugged at my curls.

“Is he a top or a bottom?”

“You don’t have to use the third person, you know.”

We looked into each other’s eyes and something clicked between us.

“Are you a top or a bottom?” I repeated.

“More inclined to dominate,” he said, yanking my hair again, “but I can do anything for a good fuck.”

His voice was low and dripping with sensuality.

“You must be very big, judging by your hands.”

His hand curled around my neck exerting a little pressure.

“Does size matter to you?” he poured the words into my ear.

“It depends,” I croaked, “May I?”

“Be my guest,” he replied, smugly.

My fingers trembled as they grabbed the bulge that filled his underpants.

“Fuck, it’s huge,” I gasped, and heard him snigger.

“You can take it for a spin, if you like,” he suggested.

I pulled the waistband down and tucked it behind his balls. His dick sprang out, fully hard and very angry. I so wanted to give it a good suck.

“It’s perfect,” I groaned, “Made to be pleasured,” I added, closing my fingers around the head.

“Maybe it’s too, oh god, hmm, too much for you,” he arched his back and bucked his hips as I stroked him slowly with one hand and rubbed his chest and belly with the other.

“It’s never too much,” I said, and before I knew it, Kurt had rolled on top of me and was grinding his dick against my thigh while mine - still clothed - was pressing against his belly.

“I’d love to push your folded legs to your chest,” he guided me in the position he’d just described. “Like this, your hole would be all exposed,” he whispered, bringing his finger to the spot in question. My anus fluttered, and I could swear that it had opened up at his words. “I would plunge into you in one go,” he was panting now, “And I wouldn’t stop until I was balls deep in you.”

“Yes, want it so much, so much,” I moaned, wrapping my arms and legs around him and thrusting into him. “Fuck me hard, I want to feel you in my tummy,” I was babbling, but I didn’t care. “I’d wreck you, ruin you,” he growled.

At this point, we lost all sense of place and time and just went at it like animals in rut. I came in my underwear and he painted my torso, but it was almost as good as the fuck we’d imagined. Kurt was going to be the end of me.


	14. Odd Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio chats with Rico and understands a few more things about Oliver.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> PS These two will be the end of me....

I woke up in the middle of the night in need of the toilet.

After I’d taken care of business, I heard a noise coming from the end of the corridor. I tiptoed in its direction and from behind a closed door came the sound of someone staggering and cursing.

“Hello?” I ventured “You okay there?”

“What do you think?” was the huffy reply.

I decided to go in.

Rico seemed thinner than I remembered and his bare chest was dotted with dark spots. I knew they were caused by KS, I’d read all about it, but it was still a shock to be confronted with such plentiful evidence of it. He was trying to go somewhere but was too weak to manage on his own.

“If you need the bathroom, I can take you,” I said.

He cast a long look at me and laughed; it shook him like a fit of coughing.

“I’m stronger than I look,” I said.

“Okay, help me back to bed then,” he replied.

I curled my arm around his waist and half-hoisted him up on to the mattress. The sheets were crumpled but clean and the air reeked of disinfectant.

“Where were you going?” I insisted.

“The kitchen, to get some yogurt,” he said, “And maybe a banana: I am starving.”

I wondered whether it was alright for him to eat after he’d been sick, but I didn’t want to wake Kurt and ask him.

“I’ll see what I can find,” I told him.

In the fridge there was a selection of yogurts; I picked a plain one and one with vanilla. I also grabbed a bottle of lemonade, two bananas and a teaspoon.

“You wouldn’t have a cigarette too, by any chance?” he asked, after he’d devoured the first piece of fruit.

“They are in my backpack,” I said, indicating Kurt’s room.

“Never mind,” he said, waving his hand, “He’d smell it on me, anyway.”

“Aren’t you allowed to smoke?”

“I had pneumonia two months ago,” he replied, “The doctor said I was lucky to survive it, but cigarettes are verboten.”

He’d started on the plain yogurt and as he ate, he assessed me with bloodshot brown eyes.

“You sucked that bite on his neck, didn’t you?” he asked, and I felt myself blush.

“No need to be embarrassed,” he went on, “It’s a bloody miracle, that’s what it is. He’s like a frigging monk. I mean, look at him! Well, you did more than that.”

I blushed some more and he rolled his eyes.

“He told me your name’s Elio and that you met him in his ‘other life’. That’s what he calls the time when he wasn’t up for sainthood.”

“How did you meet him? If you don’t mind telling me, I mean.”

“Sure, it’s not like it’s a secret. I used to have a market stall in Testaccio, selling fruit and vegetables. It's my family’s, has been since forever. Kurt was often in the area; we always had a chat and a laugh when he came to buy something. I was flirting a bit - who can blame me - but I cut it out soon enough. You could tell he wasn’t interested. When I got too sick, I stopped going to work. He asked about me and when he found out I was on my own, he brought me here.”

I had so many questions; I didn’t know where to start.

“My family would have taken me back, but I don’t want them to see me like this,” he said. “And they give us fruit and veg for free,” he joked.

We stayed silent for a while, as he finished eating.

“I think he needed someone to keep him company or he would have gone crazy,” Rico said, resting his hands in his lap.

I nodded, fighting the lump which was making its way up my throat.

“He also needs someone to type that stuff for him,” he said, with an impish grin, “Because he’s terrible at it; maybe because his hands are like paddles.”

There’s nothing wrong with Oliver’s hands, I thought, a bit offended on their behalf.

“Are you a good typist?”

Rico showed me his shaky fingers, “No, but I thought you might be.”

“I play the piano,” I explained, “Sort of, I mean, I study at the Conservatory.”

“I see,” he scratched his head, “He likes them intellectual. I never stood a chance then. Me, I’ve never set foot inside a concert hall in my life.”

“He’s not that kind of guy,” I replied, although I wasn’t completely certain what sort of man Oliver really was. Still, I doubted he would snub a perspective lover depending on their occupation.

“I sure as hell didn’t expect he would be bringing home a slip of a boy like you,” he said, “No offence intended.”

“None taken,” I said, “We are an odd couple, I can see that.”

Rico fell into a momentary brown study and I resolved to go back to bed, when he suddenly emerged from his silence, “By the way,” he exclaimed, “There is a piano in the spare room, but I guess he’s already told you about it.”

“No, but we didn’t really talk about...”

He let out a shrill cackle.

“You had better things to do, yes, of course.”

I couldn’t deny that he’d hit the mark.

“You lucky girl,” he said, nudging my knee with his foot. I slapped it playfully and he giggled. He was younger than he looked, I could tell, though I didn’t dare ask him about his age. I felt close to him, because he’d known a side of Oliver I’d only glimpsed at.

“Is he... has he, what do you think, is he okay?” I stuttered.

“You want to know if he’s got this,” he touched the spot on his sternum, “No, I don’t think so, no. He told me he tested positive, but it was long ago and when I got pneumonia, he didn’t even catch a cold. His immune system is fine.”

“Try and tell him that.”

Rico gazed at me and his expression turned sad.

“Many of my friends have died,” he said, “When you are the only one left you wonder why. You ask yourself what they have done that you haven’t and you feel guilty that you are asking those questions,” he shook his head, “And it’s all so stupid because no one knows why this is happening.”

I saw that he was exhausted, so I tucked him in, making sure he had everything he needed and returned to bed.

 

Oliver was lying on his stomach, his face turned to the side. I stroked his back and shoulders and trailed kisses along his arm.

“You okay,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah, just went for a piss.”

“Should have woken me up,” he said “Wanted to watch.”

I combed my fingers through his hair.

“Go back to sleep,” I whispered, but he rolled to the side and pulled me to him.

“That’s better,” he sighed, and was out for the count again. With his arms around me, I was asleep too in no time.

 

In the morning, when I opened my eyes, I found him already dressed and ready to go about his business. When I checked my wristwatch, I saw that it was 9am. I had my to be at the Conservatory at 11, so there was plenty of time for a quick shower, a cup of coffee and a long make out session, not necessarily in that order.

“I will drive you back, if you want,” Kurt said – because that’s who he was in that moment – “I’m going in that general direction.”

“How long do I have?” I asked.

“Thirty minutes,” he replied.

I would have to do without the coffee.

“Come into the bathroom while I shower,” I said, but he wasn’t amenable. He was reacting to his previous openness with corresponding diffidence.

“Rico needs me,” he said, and left soon after.

He came to find me in the kitchen where, hair still wet, I was drinking orange juice.

“Tell me when you are ready,” he said, keeping his distance.

I walked up to him, threw my arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. He didn’t reciprocate, but his lips curved into a smile.

“This kitchen makes you frisky,” he joked.

“It’s you, not the furniture,” I replied, grabbing his biceps and pressing my chest to his, “Come on, don’t make me beg.”

“This sounds like begging to me,” he said, smugly. I pinched his ass, making him yelp. He scowled, so I did it again.

“You annoying brat,” he hissed, sliding his tongue inside my mouth. I relaxed against him and yanked his hair the way he liked it. We made out for as long as he let me, but I knew that he was growing impatient and I didn’t want to push my luck.

“Let me just check,” I said, nibbling his bottom lip one last time. I undid his shirt and uncovered his collarbone: my love bite was a pleasing shade of purple.

“Yeah,” I sighed, and planted a soft kiss on it.

He played at being indifferent, but his cheeks were pinker than before.

Before we left, I told him that I wanted to say goodbye to Rico.

“We talked, last night,” I said, relishing Oliver’s surprise.

Rico was watching something on TV, but he hugged me and told me to come back soon, which was more than I’d expected.

Oliver didn’t comment until we were out of the garage.

“Was he okay? He wasn’t sick again, I hope.”

I recounted what had happened, omitting a few details.

“He’s nice,” I added, “Maybe I could bring my friends to meet him. He must feel lonely, sometimes.”

He didn’t seem happy.

“It’s just,” he said, trying to find the right words, “It’s complicated. What if you decide you’ve had enough of all this - whatever it is - and disappear? That would be worse than being lonely.”

“And why would I do that, uh?”

If he hadn’t been driving, I’d have shoved him aside.

“Let me remind you that you left me not the other way round. I’m not mad at you because of that, but I don’t see why you should accuse me of something that you did.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Stop being fucking sorry and get this into your thick head: I am not leaving, you are not leaving, no one is fucking leaving!”

I was shouting and he was clearly upset. A moment later, we were both giggling hysterically. I placed a hand on his thigh, only to re-establish a connection.

“Remember when you said that you didn’t know what I had, but whatever it was, it had ensnared you?”

He nodded, without looking at me.

“It’s the same for me,” I confessed, “It was never a question, Oliver; it was always an imperative.”

I wouldn’t tell him that I loved him while he was driving, but it was obvious that I meant it. His hand covered mine, our fingers laced together. I ducked down to kiss his cheek and he turned quickly to peck my lips.

“Rico told me that you have a piano,” I said.

We were gridlocked and I was thanking the gods of traffic jams for that. There must be one at least, in the vast pantheon of Roman deities, I thought.

Oliver feigned exasperation.

“Did you give him the third degree?”

I inspected my fingernails, blowing on them softly.

“He merely noticed my slender hands; said that yours are like paddles,” I replied, “His words, not mine.”

“Maybe I can’t play the piano, but there are other _things_ I can do with them.”

I felt a sudden need to adjust the crotch of my pants.

“Typing is not among them, apparently.”

“You are not saying what I think you are saying.”

There were road-works ahead of us and a 4-way provisional traffic light: we had all the time in the world.

“You let me use the piano; I pay you back any way you like.”

“Ten pages per day, at the very least,” he replied, without missing a beat.

“Fine,” I agreed, “Or I could do this.” I palmed his groin, felt it swell beneath my grasp.

“Unfair,” he groaned, letting go of the wheel to do the same to me.

We were forced to snap out of our sex-daze by a couple of passers-by who were less than impressed with our antics.

I flipped them the bird, but Oliver had gone serious.

“We should behave,” he said.

“Only if you promise you’ll meet my friends,” I replied, “I have a proposal for you.”

“I know your proposals,” he smirked.

Suddenly, in that peculiar way that so often happened in Rome, the road was clear again and we were moving. Oliver was focussed on driving and I was entranced by the sight of his strong hands on the wheel.

“I promise this has nothing to do with sex,” I replied.

He caught my gaze and winked.

 


	15. The Lost Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver flirt some more.  
> Oliver meets Sabino, or should I say Kurt?
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so much for the lovely comments. They do mean a lot and they are the reason I keep writing. <333
> 
> Il Ragazzo Perduto (The Lost Boy) by Alberto Arbasino was later re-titled L'Anonimo Lombardo.  
> Edit: I had to add this note because this is so weird. I just found The Lost Boy today and I am reading it now for the first time. It's an epistolary novel and in a letter to his friend Emilio, the protagonist mentions some Kurt Weill's songs he'd listened to in Enzo's house in Rome. I screamed on the bus when I read that passage. Wow, talk about coincidences....

 

It was the oddest thing, when I reflected on it: I had spent years without Oliver and less than two months with him, but when I kissed him goodbye – certain that we would see each other again soon – I felt an immediate sadness, an emptiness which I’d not experienced before.

“When can I see you again?” I asked, and who cared if it sounded like begging.

“Aren’t you tired of me yet?” he smiled, but his eyes were guarded.

I rubbed over the mark I’d left on his collarbone and he let me.

“No, I’m very eager, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He laughed, “You really are shameless.”

I shrugged, “You haven’t told me what I want to hear yet.”

“It depends when you want to play that piano,” he replied, arching his eyebrows.

“I always want to,” I said, “I’d spend every night on it, working my fingers to the bone.”

“It’s not been touched for a while, it sure needs tuning.”

This was going better than I’d hoped: double-entendres and flirting _en plein air_.

“I can do that,” I replied, stroking his hair, “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, so to speak.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” he went on, leaning into my touch, “It has been dusted, occasionally. And I could give it a bit of a cleaning.”

I grazed the back of his neck with my nails.

“Instruments can be very temperamental,” I said, “They should only be handled by experts.”

Oliver clutched the front of my t-shirt and pulled me in for a kiss. It was brief but extremely satisfactory. “At what time will you be done here?” he asked.

“Around three, I think. But I have a break for lunch at 1pm. We usually go to the local _Pizza al taglio_. You can’t miss it: it’s the only grubby joint in the neighbourhood.”

“Okay, I’ll try to make it,” he said, “If not, I will see you soon, I promise.”

“You better make it or I will get Sabino to drive me to your apartment. Rico will let us in and you will never get rid of us.”

He raised his arms in a surrender gesture and at the same time a car behind us clamoured for our parking spot.

“I will be there,” he said. I gave him one last hug, got out and watched him as he drove away.

I spent the next two hours trying my best to concentrate. Luckily, the second hour was dedicated to practising. But even then I was reminded of our conversation in the car and found myself smiling like an idiot. Sabino and I were grappling with the Kreutzer Sonata and by the end, he’d realised something was up.

“Beethoven never had this effect on you before,” he said, as we walked out of the building. “You got laid, obviously. Not that boring blonde again, I hope.”

“This blond is anything but boring,” I replied, “And by the way, hands off him or I will shave your hair off while you sleep.”

“Calm down, Psycho,” Sabino shrieked, “Wait, what, is that a boy? I need details.”

“He's a man and his name is,” I stopped, not sure which one to pick, “Kurt; his name’s Kurt.”

“You don’t sound very sure,” he said, “If you went cruising at Monte Caprino, you better tell me because I will find out.”

It was a recurring joke between us, because I’d always refused to go there and he kept insisting that one day it would happen; that it was inevitable.

“No, it’s someone I met three years ago.”

In the meantime, we’d arrived. There was already a crowd queuing for pizza; luckily, a couple of boys came up to talk to Sabino, so I stepped inside to check if Oliver was there already. To my dismay, he wasn’t. I checked my watch: it was ten past one. I took a can of Coke from the refrigerator and joined the queue.

I was deep in thought, when I heard a girl ahead of me exclaim, “ _Ma che gran figo_!”

Heads turned and students giggled, but I was the fortunate man who got to say hello to the marvel in question. Oliver had changed into a navy-blue suit and off-white shirt; his hair was neatly combed and his stubble no longer unkempt.

“Why so elegant?” I croaked, fighting the impulse to climb all over him in order to stake my claim.

“Going to see my publishers,” he replied, “More accurately: the publishers of the book I’m translating.”

“ _Lunaria_ ,” I said, smugly.

“Can’t keep your nose out of my affairs,” he argued, but he wasn’t angry.

“I didn’t tell you about my proposal.”

I was about to, when Sabino’s voice blared like the trumpets of the Apocalypse.

“Christ, you are big,” he said, touching Oliver’s bicep. I wished my eyes could shoot deathly rays able to melt flesh and cartilage.

“Hi Kurt, I’m Elio’s friend, Sabino,” he went on, shaking Oliver’s hand with graceful ease.

“Nice to meet you,” Oliver replied; but no, it was Kurt who did: nice but distant and business-like. I understood immediately that I had miscalculated: Kurt would be infinitely more attractive to Sabino than Oliver. There was nothing I could do, except trust my lover, both of them. My jealousy was irrational for more reasons than I cared to enumerate, but there it was, like a snake in the grass.

We sat down and ate our lunch – pizza for us, cheese and ham toast for Oliver – while Sabino asked whether we’d met in the States.

“No, it was here in Italy,” Kurt replied.

“In Bergamo,” I added, mischievously, “He came to my rescue one night, when I was so smashed I threw up outside the Duomo.”

Oliver cast me a doubtful look, but did not contradict me.

“Are you kidding me?” Sabino said, “I’m just reading Arbasino’s The Lost Boy and the protagonist’s lover is from Bergamo. Have you read it?” he asked Kurt, who shook his head.

“I can lend it to you when I’m done with it,” he said, “It’s in Italian, if that’s all right.”

“Kurt is a translator,” I explained, directing my adoring gaze at the mozzarella.

I realised a second too late that my thunder was about to be stolen.

“But that’s perfect,” Sabino declared, licking his tomato sauce-smeared fingers, “A friend of ours is looking for a professional translator.”

“Yes, that’s what I was going to talk to you about,” I said.

I briefly told him about Divo’s project but Oliver interrupted me before I was done.

“You only translate into your mother tongue, unless you are perfectly bilingual, like your maman,” he smiled.

I frowned and bit my lips, and my friend, who knew me well, hastened to leave.

“I have to talk to Professor Sarti,” he said, “See you in fifteen. Pleasure to meet you, Kurt,” he said, squeezing the latter’s fingers.

“Your friend’s very sociable,” Oliver said, “Why did he leave so suddenly?”

“You should come see The Normal Heart and meet Divo and the others” I blurted out, “They want to raise money and awareness by taking the play around Italy. Naturally, we’d have to ask permission, but Divo knows the author.”

“I know him too,” Oliver said, “I’ve met him once, when I went to the GMHC to see what they were doing. He was rude and swore a lot; I liked him.”

“I thought so,” I replied, smiling. “There should be another performance tomorrow night, if you are up for it. Afterwards, I could come and take look at your piano.”

“Like a dog with a bone,” he sighed. “Okay, tell me where and when: I’ll meet you there.”

I gave him the address and told him to be there at eight. It was one hour too early but I wanted to introduce him to my friends before the play, in case we needed to leave soon after the end. I imagined he’d be deeply affected by it and maybe he wouldn’t want to be in the company of strangers.

“Can I call you tonight?” I asked, once we were outside.

“You don’t have my number,” he replied, with a toothy grin.

“Write it on here,” I said, showing him my open palm.

“I can do better.” He extracted a slip of paper from his wallet; on it was printed only the name Kurt and a phone number.

“Classy,” I commented, “Would 10pm be okay, your Eminence?”

“Make it 11pm.”

“Do you have an extension in your bedroom?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t you see the phone on the bedside table?” he feigned exasperation, “Black rectangular object with buttons.”

“Be there and be alone,” I said, waving goodbye.

 

That afternoon, the sun was blazing hot and I decided to go to the park.

Manu was free too, so we made a date for ice-cream and a walk inside Villa Doria Pamphilj. There was a _gelateria_ opposite one of the entrances, and that’s where I found her, already licking her maxi-cone with three different flavours of chocolate. I bought a simple pistachio and _crema_ : it reminded me of home.

“How was that place in San Lorenzo?” she asked, catching me by surprise. Our cinema outing had been days ago, but it seemed like the proverbial lifetime.

“I’ll tell you later,” I replied, “Let’s find a bench and sit down.”

We found one next to an enormous oak tree.

“You are scaring me,” she said, munching on her cone. “What’s happened?”

“You remember the guy I told you about, the American who came to stay with my family almost three years ago?”

She nodded, “The first man you slept with? Yeah, it’s not like I’d forget about that one. Oh god, don’t tell me that he was there and that he’s...”

 “No, he’s fine, well, not really, but no, anyway,” I drew a deep breath, “He’s here in Rome and we are back together.”

Manu’s eyes expressed her surprise but not a speck of resentment. I loved her because she was incapable of being catty.

“Did he know that you were in Rome?”

“Yes, he did, but we met by chance, not far from my apartment.”

“That’s an amazing coincidence. I guess it was written in stars.”

I hadn’t looked at it that way, but she was right.

“What did you mean by ‘not really’? Is he not well?”

“No, he’s fine, but there are things,” I hesitated, “I will tell you when I know for sure, one way or the other. But I promise you’ll meet him soon. Actually, why don’t you come tomorrow night at Divo’s? He's going to be there.”

“I don’t want to be the third wheel,” she joked.

“We are not going to make out during a play.”

She snorted, twice.

“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” she said, “Remember that time at the Teatro Argentina when you stuck your tongue inside my ear during Titus Andronicus?”

“I was bored.”

“I don’t want to watch you grope your boyfriend,” she grimaced. “What’s his name again?”

I hesitated only for a second.

“Oliver,” I replied.

 

That evening, I decided to stay at home and study. I pretended not to care about the appointment I’d set with Oliver, that maybe I would get to 11 o’clock and not even notice, letting it slide by, unremarked. Thirty minutes before that, I was already fidgeting. I took a shower and brushed my teeth then put on some background music. I lay down on the bed to smoke; in the ashtray, there was still the evidence of Oliver’s spent cigarettes. I missed him terribly but I didn’t want to put too much pressure on him.

I waited two minutes after eleven before I dialled his number.

It rang three times and then his voice, low and sensual, said “Pronto?”

“Are you in bed?” I asked.

“Hello to you too,” he mocked, “Yes, I am on my mattress.”

“Listen, before anything happens, I wanted you to know that I’ve invited a friend to the theatre tomorrow. We used to be together and she wants to meet you.”

He groaned, “If this is going to be a three-way affair, forget it. I am not interested: it’s not my thing and never was, no matter what you may have imagined back then.”

“Whaaat?” I shouted, “No, no, she’s just a friend now and no, absolutely not, ugh, no. I would never share you, wasn’t I clear?”

“Yes, but maybe you’d ask me to share you. In my condition, maybe you’d think I should be grateful and perhaps I should, but it’s not how things work for me.”

It killed me that he was not there with me.

“See, this is why we should never be separated. I’d show you how _things_ work, if you were here.”

“How do they work?” he asked, softly.

“You have my marks on your skin, that’s how. Do they sting?”

“A little, but I like that.”

The way he said it, quiet but firm, was an incredible turn-on.

“Are you naked?” I whispered.

“In my underpants,” he replied, “They are tight.”

“Poor darling,” I cooed, “Take them off and let me see what I can do to make it better.”


	16. The Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Elio go to see the play.
> 
> A shortish chapter, but I didn't want to spoil the angst and fluff with smut. 
> 
> Which means.... there will be smut in the next chapter, of course :)
> 
> Elio's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff about music is quoted from Ryan Sullivan.
> 
> Thanks to you all for your amazing comments. I am grateful and overwhelmed. You rock.

 

I arrived in Via La Spezia fifteen minutes early. Manu was with me, because she knew Antonella, the girl who played the wheelchair-bound doctor, and wanted to say hello before the play.

“You go in,” I said, “I’ll wait here for Oliver.”

“Nice try, Perlman,” she replied, “But I want to witness the arrival of mystery man.”

“Suit yourself, but be warned that there’s going to be kissing.”

“You said you wouldn’t grope him.”

“During the play, that’s what I said.”

She made a face and I laughed.

My thoughts drifted back to the events of the previous night and I felt hot all over. I had made Oliver come twice, ordering him where and how to touch himself, pretending it was my middle finger inside him and my tongue on his dick. I had found pleasure too, but the best part was listening to his laboured breathing and his cries, grunts and moans.

“You got it bad, don’t you,” she said, wrapping her arm around my shoulder.

“Can’t deny it, won’t even try,” I replied, “There he is.”

He’d found a parking spot farther down the road and was locking the car.

Manu gasped, “You forgot to mention that he looked like that.”

“Like what?” I smirked.

“Do shut up,” she exclaimed, elbowing me in the ribs. “Wow, he’s even better in motion.”

Oliver’s expression was blank, but Manu wasn’t fazed.

“Hi, I’m Manu, Elio’s ex-girlfriend,” she said.

“Oliver, please to meet you. He told me about you,” he replied, trying to shake her hand; she ignored him and instead kissed him on the cheek.

“You smell good,” she remarked, “What is it?”

“Missoni Uomo,” I replied, smugly.

“Elio knows everything,” Manu joked, “It can be annoying, sometimes.”

“That’s what I told him the other day,” Oliver said, grinning, “I’m glad I’m not the only one to think so.”

“We can compare notes later,” she said, smiling back, “I’m going to see my friend now, so you two can misbehave all you like.”

I stuck my tongue out and she did the same, while Oliver laughed at us.

“She’s nice,” he said, “And she looks a lot like you.”

“We often get asked if we are brother and sister.”

“I’m not surprised. Why did you break up?”

I told him and he said he understood. “Sexual attraction is an odd beast,” he said, “It cannot be conjured up if it’s not there. At least it wasn’t one-sided; that would have been so much worse.”

“Speaking of which,” I whispered, after having made sure that we were alone, “How are you feeling?”

“Let’s just say that I’m grateful to Enzo for putting a phone extension in the bedroom,” he replied, with a wicked smile.

“Hmm, yes,” I caressed his face and he brought his lips to mine. We exchanged a languorous kiss that was cut short by the sound of steps coming towards us.

“Let’s go inside,” I said, taking him by the hand. “I’ll introduce you to Divo and the others.”

“I wouldn’t want to disturb them while they get ready,” he argued, “Some actors don’t like that.”

“What do you know about actors?”

“I’ve met one or two.”

“Met or..?” Jealousy was rearing its ugly head again.

“I can’t remember their names,” he replied, “If that answers your question.”

It did.

 

Divo and the others were happy to see us. They all stared at Oliver when we entered, and I reflected on how swiftly he’d gone back to being the centre of attention. Kurt’s ordinariness had all but vanished, replaced by Oliver’s brilliance. He was mine, I thought, and I would never wish him diminished in any way.

He and Divo talked about Kramer, while Aurelio and Giulio listened on, chiming in when their characters were mentioned. They had started in English, but soon Oliver was speaking Italian with a fluency that I found incredibly arousing. Not that too, I sighed inwardly. Manu – who was chatting noisily with her friend – caught my gaze and mouthed the word ‘sexy’; I shook my head and laughed: she knew me too well.

In the end, Oliver agreed to revise the translation for free provided we could work on it together, since I was bilingual. It suited me perfectly, gifting me with an additional excuse for helping the man I loved.

No mention was made of Oliver’s possible illness or the fact that he’d watched his lover die, same as the protagonist of the play. If my friends suspected anything, they were too discreet, or perhaps too afraid, to ask.

 

When we chose our seats, Manu insisted she wanted to be next to Oliver.

“This way I can talk to him,” she said, and she proceeded doing just that, until the lights went out.

They chatted about random things and thanks to her I discovered that Oliver went to Porta Portese to buy his t-shirts and sweatpants and that sometimes he stripped down to try them on.

“You are never doing that again,” I murmured, in the quiet moments before the play started.

He leaned down and whispered: “You try and stop me.”

I heard Manu’s stifled giggles and realised I’d been had.

 

As the play unfolded, Oliver became increasingly restless. He was stiff with anger during Doctor Bruckner’s speech about the indifference of the powers that be and of the medical establishment to the spreading of HIV, and he was fighting back the tears when a severely ill Felix went to see his lover’s brother on order to make his will. I took his hand in mine and he clutched it so hard it hurt. The effort of keeping it together put a strain on my muscles and by the end of the performance it was as though I’d spent hours at the gym.

We clapped and cheered, but Oliver’s eyes were red-rimmed and Manu was throwing him worried glances.

“I’ve never been so angry,” she said, and he bit the inside of his cheek, but managed a pale smile.

“Maybe we should go,” I offered, and she hugged me tight.

“I have arranged to go for drinks with Antonella,” she said, “I’ll phone you tomorrow.”

She threw her arms around Oliver, who bent down to kiss her cheeks.

“We could go to Porta Portese together,” she proposed.

“As long as no one is dropping their trousers,” I joked, and we agreed to make a date of it soon.

 

We drove to Oliver’s apartment in silence.

I wanted to comfort him, but I knew that if I started, I wouldn’t be able to contain myself. A kiss was not enough, a few caresses were just as paltry and as for words, they were stupidly overrated. Only music could come close to being underneath Oliver’s skin and deep inside of him.

He spoke as he switched the engine off.

“Your friends were amazing,” he said, “We should have stayed to tell them.”

I got out of the car, walked round and opened the driver’s door. Oliver gazed up at me then stepped out too.

He was barely on his feet when I pushed him against the Escort and threw myself on him.

“You are alright,” I repeated, while he stroked my shoulders and back, “I’m sure of it, you have to be.”

I buried my nose into the opening of his shirt and inhaled his scent; there was a hint of sweat mixed with the perfume, and that brought me back to our summer and its lost innocence.

“I never want to leave you,” I told him, looking him in the eye. I’d said it through gritted teeth, like a declaration of war or the throwing of a gage in medieval times.

“You don’t know what you are saying,” he shook his head. “You have seen how bad it can get. And what if I were to infect you? That would be worse than dying.”

I bit his neck.

“Don’t fucking say that again,” I hissed, “First, we are going to be careful and second, we are finding a private clinic and you are getting tested again; both tests, both of us.”

“You don’t need to...”

I trailed my hands down his body, greedily squeezing and groping as I went.

“This belongs to me and I want to enjoy every inch of it,” I replied, “For as long as you’ll let me.”

He sighed and took my hand, lacing our fingers together.

“I’d rather not do this in a garage,” he said.

“One day, I’ll go down on you right here.”

“Get in the elevator, Casanova,” he grinned.

 

Once in the apartment, we found a note stuck to the inside of the front door: Rico had gone to bed and didn’t want to be disturbed,

Oliver closed his eyes and muttered under his breath.

“What?” I enquired.

“It’s a conspiracy,” he said, “He knew you were coming here and was throwing hints all over the place.”

“I like him more and more,” I replied, “And now show me that piano.”

 

To my surprise, there really was a piano. Rico had told me about it, but after discussing it with Oliver, I’d somehow assumed it was only a pretext for lewd innuendo.

It was a red Fazioli, a stunningly beautiful instrument.

“You should have told me,” I exclaimed, tracing the smooth surface with my fingertips.

Oliver smiled broadly. “I wanted to see the look on your face,” he said, “There, that’s what I was counting on.”

When I improvised some Bach on it, I found it pitch-perfect.

I clicked my tongue, “You are such a liar, Mister Kurt.”

“You didn’t think I’d let you practise on any old instrument,” he replied, massaging my shoulders, “Not Elio Perlman, the child prodigy.”

“You’ll pay for this,” I said.

“You could start by inflicting that terrible Busoni version of Bach on me,” he replied, with a wink. He had not forgotten, I thought, he remembered everything.

 

Music is considered to be a function of sound, but it is in fact an art of time.

Tones have duration and music is the unfolding of tones through time.

Oliver was sitting on a green velvet-covered armchair and raptly listening to my rendition of the piece that young Bach had written for his brother. Was it the present or the past? Would there be a future for us? Would we be in some other room, years from now, unravelling the same thread that bound us together?

The ritual that was both reassuring and unsettling: would I be able to play Bach again if anything happened to Oliver?

Music, like time, would cease for me: that’s what I realised, as my fingers danced over the keyboard.

“I still love it,” he said, when it was over, “You are incredibly talented.”

I stayed still, staring ahead of me.

“I love you, Oliver,” I said, “I want to play this for you when we are both old and grey and creaking with rheumatism.”

He was silent, but I heard his call all the same. I went to him and sat in his lap. He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my nose, my cheeks, my chin and, finally, my lips. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice edged with tears, “Yes.”


	17. Work in Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver cuddle up and then... smut happens.
> 
> Don't blame the author: the boys have a lot of catching up to do.
> 
> Also, Elio has another chat with Rico.
> 
> Elio's POV

 

My declaration of love was followed by gentle touches and whispered sweet nothings.

I was filled with tenderness for Oliver, and a calmness which derived from the certainty that he would never leave me again. He had promised as much, looking me dead in the eye, and I believed him.

The time for being reckless had come and gone; I was under no illusion that it would be easy, but ‘easy’ was all I’d ever experienced since the day I was born: liberal, loving parents, enough money to never lack for anything, health, good friends, a talent for music and a lust for life. And then I’d met Oliver, who had given me more than I’d bargained for, asking for nothing in return. And I’d wanted him to ask, to demand and challenge me. I was like an athlete who’d prepared for the Olympics and instead was reduced to running the local marathon.

Would I miss the mindless fun of sleeping around and the hedonism of a wealthy student’s existence? The lure of it was palling already, I realised, and meeting Oliver again had been its _coup de grâce_.

 

We had prepared for bed: I was down to my boxers and Oliver had changed into a worn t-shirt and a pair of shorts.

There was nothing provocative in his appearance and we were both emotionally drained.

“Could we just cuddle?” I asked, resting my head on his shoulder.

His chest shook with laughter.

“Casanova has turned into a kitten,” he said.

“I have many layers,” I scowled.

“Don’t I know that,” he was still grinning, “A man for all seasons.”

“That’s you,” I argued, “You are two men, with two names and personalities. I’d like to know more about Kurt.”

“You might not like what you see,” he countered, caressing my hair.

“I’m already sure I won’t, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Nothing matters until it suddenly does.”

My hand was on his chest, drawing lazy patterns on the soft cotton of his top.

“You should be writing haiku.”

He chuckled but it ended in a gasp when I grazed his nipple. I hadn’t done it on purpose, but noticing his reaction, I did it again. It peaked, and made me want to lick and bite it.

“Only cuddles, you said,” he rasped.

I was wide awake, all tiredness forgotten.

“Tell me to stop,” I said, my mouth hovering above his sternum.

“Never,” he whispered. I was on him before the word was fully out of his mouth.

I sucked hard, wetting and worrying the fabric, but I wanted to dig my teeth into his flesh, so I pulled his t-shirt up to his collarbone. When I lapped at his nipple with the broad of my tongue, Oliver cursed and shivered.

“You weren’t this sensitive back then,” I said, petting his sides to calm him down.

“Still not used to being touched,” he confessed, and flushed a little, “You can be more,” he was panting when he said it, “more aggressive. Like when you marked me. I enjoyed that.”

I tweaked the reddened flesh with as much strength as I could muster. Oliver’s eyelids trembled and his back shot off the mattress.

“Jesus,” I gasped, “You are killing me.”

“Sorry,” he gave me a pale smile, and I had to kiss his mouth; his stubble scratched me and I wanted more of it, more of Oliver. I palmed his crotch and my heart migrated to my groin. It was my turn to shudder, and he sensed that the mood had shifted. In that, he hadn’t changed; perhaps because our bodies were joined by an instinctive synchronicity.

“I need you so badly,” he panted, groping my ass. I whimpered, wanting his dick inside of me. I remembered it vividly, almost could feel the painful stretch and the delirious pleasure of being filled to the brim. I yanked his shorts down and his erection hit me on the chin.

“Wait,” I said, and reached for my backpack. I had taken condoms and lube with me, just in case.

“I don’t,” he protested, “It’s still not safe.”

“I know,” I said, kissing the tip of his nose, “Or I would have proposed it already. Shut up and let me show you.”

He was too worked up to contradict me.

 

We’d never done that before, because the health question had been disposed of on our first night and after that, we’d always made love without protection.

I held Oliver's gaze as I rolled the condom on to his length, and after I was done my fingers strayed to his balls and then to his perineum.

I was provoking him on purpose and it worked.

“Fucking tease,” he growled, and pinned me face down to the mattress. I was pliant, letting him be in control. He lay on top of me, burying his face in my neck. His sheathed cock was wedged between my thighs.

“More, yes, come on,” I said, grinding my crotch against the sheets.

“My rules,” he hissed, and started sucking a bruise on my shoulder.

“Please,” I whimpered, reaching back to touch the swell of his buttocks. I eased a finger in between them: it was hot and sweaty, the ideal place for my tongue. I brought my hand to my nose and inhaled his scent.

“Don’t lick it,” he said, and I almost lost it.

“Fucking do something then,” I cried.

“Christ, Elio,” he sounded like he couldn’t take it one second longer. Perfect.

Roughly, he removed my boxers, manhandled me up on all fours and bracketed my legs with his. I squeezed my thighs together just as his cock pushed between them.  It was slick with lube and made a squelching sound at every thrust; that and Oliver’s grunts made my dick wet. I started stroking it, going straight to heaven. 

“Harder, harder,” I begged, and Oliver bruised my sides, clawing at them while he rammed into me. The bed-frame rattled and there rivulets of sweat trickling down my spine.

“Yes, god, yes,” he screamed when he came, and I was already there, my palm filled with bliss.

 

“If that’s what you call cuddling,” he joked, after we’d cleaned up and returned to bed.

“Not my fault that you have showy nipples.”

“You could have left them alone.”

I arched my eyebrows, “You keep talking like that I won’t let you sleep.”

We shared lazy, sloppy kisses and slipped into a kind of trance, which was part afterglow and part exhaustion. Usually - when in that state - my tongue became loose in more ways than one.

“You filled that damn condom,” I babbled, “That’s one load gone to waste.”

Oliver responded in kind.

“Next time I’ll shoot it into a piece of fruit.”

“That would be me.”

We giggled; more kisses followed, open-mouthed and full of tongue.

“I really want to suck you off,” I said.

He nodded, “I dream of going down on you, front and back.”

“Such a serviceable boyfriend,” I remarked, but he disagreed, “No, I just really like cock.”

I stroked his hair, brushing it away from his face.

“And Kurt?”

“You know it’s still me, right?” he joked, before accepting to indulge me. “Kurt’s very hungry, up for anything, very dirty.”

“Dirty, as in not playing fair?”

Oliver licked a path down my throat and hummed, “Dirty, as in wanting you to sit on his face.”

I was getting hard again, sleep be damned.

“You have a filthy tongue,” I whispered, pulling at the hair on his chest.

“It would be, after I’d be done with you,” he replied, cupping my ass in both his hands.

I closed my eyes, “I’m going to dream of that,” I murmured, while rubbing his semi-hard dick.

We pleasured one another, or at least I thought we did, unless it was truly a dream; I couldn’t say, since I went from lust to oblivion, and so did he.

 

The ringing was jarring like nails on a blackboard.

I shoved my head underneath the pillow, but it wouldn’t go away.

Suddenly, it stopped, but it was the silence which woke me up.

Oliver was on the phone, speaking fast and in hushed tones.

When he perceived my gaze on him, he smiled and turned away.

I tried to catch what he was saying, but I was too numb with sleep. Oliver’s pillow smelled of him, so I wrapped my body around it and sighed happily.

I was skirting the edges of unconsciousness, when he leaned down to whisper in my ear, “I have to go, please go back to sleep.”

“Go where?” I asked, emerging from the fog. “I want to come with you.”

“No, it’s, no, absolutely not.”

I knew that tone and thought better of insisting.

“You will tell me what’s going on,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

“Okay,” he conceded, “But later, now there’s no time.”

Later: how I hated that word.

“Later better be soon,” I muttered. “And please be careful.”

“I always am,” he replied.

He pulled the covers up and tucked me in. He was gone before I could say goodbye.

 

Alone in Oliver’s bed, I became restless. I drifted in and out of a sort of limbo, weaving nightmares into reality and vice-versa. It was around dawn when I gave up and decided to go make myself some coffee.

As I passed by Rico’s room, I heard some muffled noises.

“You up?” I asked.

“Come in,” he said, and I did, without hesitation.

He had been watching the reruns of a Japanese cartoon which had been popular during my childhood. We didn’t have a TV at the time, because my dad was against what he called ‘the assassination of our attention span.” _Maman_ had only convinced him to relent when a group of terrorists had blown up the Central Station in Bologna in the summer of 1980. “I want to watch the news,” she had said, “I want to see what they did so that I will never forget.” Up to then, I’d believed her to be the more accommodating partner in the relationship; in fact, she was soft yet unbending; dad adored her and she never took advantage of it, but when she wanted something, she went for it, all guns blazing. I was more like her than I cared to admit, as Oliver would surely find out, if he hadn’t already.

 

“Kurt’s gone out,” Rico said, as though it was a common occurrence.

“Does he do that often, in the middle of the night, I mean?”

“Sometimes,” he replied, “He helps so many people, you know.”

I didn’t, but I would, very soon.

“I was going to make coffee: would you like some?”

“I’ll come with you,” he said, “I’m getting bed sores in my butt from lying down.”

He seemed stronger than the other time, but I wrapped my arm around his shoulders all the same.

In the kitchen, he leaned against the window sill. Morning had broken and the sky was a soothing cloudless blue.

I poured him a glass of lemonade, which he sipped while making faces.

“I hate it, but it counteracts the nausea.”

While I waited for the coffee to brew, I asked him the question which had plagued me since our previous chat.

“You said you met Kurt because he was one of your customers; but why would someone living in Balduina go all the way to Testaccio to do his shopping? I’m sure your produce was amazing, but that’s one hell of a long drive.”

Rico laughed.

“Maybe my produce was really special,” he joked, then more seriously, “At the time I didn’t know where he lived, so I thought nothing of it.”

“And afterwards, what did you think?”

I served him coffee, which he took black with two sugars.

“I thought many things: that he had a lover who lived close by; that he was working in the area; stuff like that.”

“Did you find out?”

He drank and was immediately shaken by a fit of coughing. He folded in two, convulsing like an epileptic. I was terrified, but I didn’t let it show. I sat him down on a chair and caressed his back, waiting for the crisis to pass. It did, eventually, and what astonished me most was his pretence that nothing had happened, that it had only been a casual lull in the conversation. Evidently, he didn’t want me to make a fuss so I didn’t. I repeated my question and when he clenched his jaw, I briefly wondered whether my curiosity had been the cause of his seizure.

“He doesn’t like to speak about himself,” he replied, cautiously, “And I respect that. Maybe you should ask him directly, considering you are his boyfriend.”

That sounded really good, I thought.

“Speaking of which,” he went on, “Since you will probably move in with him, I was thinking that maybe I should go to stay with my brother.”

“Not on my account, you are not!” I exclaimed, “This is not, god, how do I say this,” I scratched the back of my head in search of the right words. “Kurt and I are a work in progress.”

“Like the Sagrada Família in Barcelona?” he suggested, with a chuckle.

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” I replied, “But with fewer spikes, I hope.”

“You are a funny one,” he remarked, eyeing me with newfound interest, “I bet you are not as harmless as you look.”

“Would Kurt be with me in that case?”

“Probably not,” he conceded.

“You are not going anywhere unless it’s because you want to,” I said, “You are our friend and we’ll take care of you.”


	18. Peaches and Melons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Rico discuss Kurt's attributes.
> 
> Oliver and Elio have a (brief) fight.
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian playing cards: Asso di bastoni = ace of clubs. But the asso di bastoni looks like a giant penis...

I was helping Rico get inside the bath which I had run for him when Oliver came back.

It was still early morning, and I did not have to be at the Conservatorio since it was Saturday. In fact, I intended to spend the week-end with Oliver, or at least as much of it as he allowed me to.

“I can manage,” Rico said, but he was coughing again; it wasn’t a full blown crisis like before, but I didn’t want to leave him alone.

“You need me to wash your back,” I replied, grabbing the sponge on which I’d squirted a glob of camomile-scented body wash.

“This is the same fragrance Mafalda used for our laundry, back home,” I told him.

“Who’s Mafalda?”

I explained the nature of our relationship and he smiled.

“My Mafalda is called Amalia. You won’t meet her today, because she’s not here on Saturdays and Sundays. She’s always moaning about this or that, but never with Kurt. I think she’s either afraid of him or in love with him; or maybe both.”

I laughed, “That’s exactly how Mafalda behaved with him. I think that he’d seduced her with his cooking skills.”

The door squeaked open and Oliver came in.

“Whose skills are you talking about?” he asked.

I looked at his face: it was tired and pale, but otherwise he seemed okay. His clothes reeked of smoke and sweat.

“Yours, in the kitchen,” I replied.

As he gazed at the two of us, his features softened.

“I need a shower,” he said, “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He left and I kept sponging Rico’s back in silence.

“I can take it from here,” my friend said, a few instants later, “Go find out what’s going on. He might tell you, if you play your cards right.”

“And what cards would they be?” I joked.

“ _L’asso di bastoni_ , from what I can tell.”

“You are hilarious,” I said, throwing the sponge at him.

“It’s not as funny as it’s true,” he countered, spraying me with soapy water.

I left after assuring him I’d come back to help him get out of the tub and headed to Oliver’s bathroom.

I saw the outline of his naked body behind the shower curtain; he had dropped his dirty clothes in a basket on top of the washing machine. I brought his shorts to my nose and inhaled.

“Elio?” he called. “I promise I won’t run away, you don’t need to treat me like the main witness in a mafia trial.”

“Don’t I? Whose house is this again?”

I heard him chuckle.

“Touché,” he replied

I could see his hands moving all over his body; I licked my lips.

“I washed Rico’s back,” I said, “Maybe I could do the same for you.”

“Never realised you needed an invitation,” he mocked, “Next time I’ll have it engraved.”

“Fuck’s sake,” I muttered, as I got undressed in record time.

I joined him and once again marvelled at the sheer beauty of his body. Had I not been in love with him, I would have still admired the harmony of his form.

“My back won’t wash itself,” he joked, as he caught me staring.

“Slave-driver,” I said, and started scrubbing across his shoulders.

“Hmm,” he moaned, and threw his head back.

A moment later, I was doing my best to climb him, my arms and legs wrapped around him. We made out between bouts of laughter and I didn’t push things further only because of my promise to Rico. I told Oliver as much, and he looked at me with one of those soft gazes which never failed to melt my insides.

“What?” I asked, as I licked the line of his jaw.

“Nothing,” he murmured, “You are just so lovely, inside and out.”

“I guess you haven’t noticed the soles of my feet.”

He grinned.

“I know all about your feet,” he declared. “And I’m crazy about them.”

“Quirky,” I said, “I want to know all of your kinks.”

“You _are_ all of my kinks.”

That was a very intriguing line of thought, but a promise was a promise.

“Shall we have breakfast together? I only had coffee before,” I asked him, while I towelled myself dry. I made an effort not to look below Oliver’s throat, and even that was tempting.

“Sure,” he replied, rubbing at his chest with a bath sheet.

“I better go now,” I said, and swallowed hard as he turned round, displaying his perfect peach.

 

“You didn’t ask him anything,” said Rico, the instant he set eyes on me.

“There wasn’t time,” I replied, and he shook his head, smiling.

“He’s very distracting,” I insisted.

“That ass won’t quit,” he said, “And that’s a fact.”

He eyed me swiftly to assess whether I was offended, but I was lost in my own reverie of fragrant plump fruit filled with juice.

“Elio?” he called, waving both his arms to capture my attention.

“Sorry, I was just, yeah, you noticed that too?”

“I’m not blind, am I?” he giggled.

“Did you ever tell him; I mean, compliment him about his rear side?”

“Once, at the start, when I was still flirting with him, I may have compared it to one of my watermelons.”

That seemed mildly unflattering.

“What did he say?”

“Oh, you know how he is: he simply ignored me.”

“Did he blink a few times and narrow his eyes then change the subject?” I suggested.

He shrieked, “Yes, exactly that!”

“Did he buy the watermelon?”

“No, if I remember right he bought a cantaloupe.”

Typical, I thought: Oliver’s reaction to praise was to pretend it had not happened.

“Come on: time to get out before you turn into a prune.”

We decided to have breakfast on the balcony. It wasn’t very wide, but it was long and had a stunning view of St. Peter’s. The awning was repairing us from the sun and it was like being on holiday at the seaside. Rico wasn’t eating much, but he nibbled a piece of toast smeared with a thin layer of lemon curd.

Oliver, on the other hand, was famished, so he had fried eggs and beef sausages.

He may no longer be wearing the Star of David, but he was still eating kosher, I thought but didn’t say.

As for me, I had found a jar of Nutella, so everything was okay with my world.

“I’m going to visit my brother,” Rico said, during a lull in the conversation.

“When?” Oliver asked.

“Today and tomorrow,” Rico replied. “He has been asking me for a while, but I never felt well enough to go.”

“What about your cough?”

“It’s fine, I can deal with it.”

I said nothing.

“You never remember to take your meds,” Oliver insisted, “And you’ve got a hospital appointment on Monday.”

“He will take me and when I am finished, I can call a taxi.”

“You are not taking a taxi. I will come and pick you up.”

“Okay,” Rico agreed; it was clear that he liked being told what to do by Kurt, and I was in no position to criticise him.

“I assume he’s coming here to collect you.”

Rico looked at the watch on Kurt’s wrist.

“He’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

I had already told Rico that he shouldn’t leave on my account and I didn’t want to say it again in front of Oliver.

“You sure you want to go?” Kurt asked.

“One hundred per cent,” his friend replied, “I’m not upset with Elio or something as stupid. It’s my family, you know? Most of the time I can’t stand them, but they are better than nothing.”

My Oliver couldn’t share this opinion, since his own family had practically disowned him.

“Yes, of course,” he said, all the same.

The next half hour was spent in packing Rico’s bag and ensuring his meds were all accounted for.

“And don’t forget the documents for the hospital,” Kurt said, handing him a brown folder.

“I promise I won’t,” Rico said, meekly. He took me aside, making sure we were out of Kurt’s earshot. “Will you accompany me downstairs? I told my brother it was the building next door. I don’t want him to find out where I live,” he murmured. I nodded.

“We are leaving now,” I said to Oliver, “Rico wants to try and walk a little.”

Before he could object, I took charge of our friend’s backpack and “Let’s go,” I said, holding Rico’s hand. He had been truthful about his health: maybe it was thanks to the pills he had taken after breakfast, but he was no longer staggering.

Once in the lobby, I opened the door and looked outside. Rico’s brother drove a white Audi Quattro, but I couldn’t see one parked in the vicinity.

“He’s not here yet,” I told Rico.

We walked up to the building where Rico's brother been told to go. We didn’t have to wait too long: a few minutes later he arrived. He parked the car in a disabled bay and hurried towards us. He was dark and older than Oliver and only bore a tenuous resemblance to Rico.

“You his boyfriend,” he asked me, with a belligerent air.

“No, he’s only a friend,” Rico replied, rolling his eyes, “Thanks Elio, I’ll see you soon.”

“ _A presto_ ,” I replied, hugging him tightly. I then said goodbye to the brother and left.

 

Back at the apartment, Oliver was washing the dishes.

“You could have left them for me,” I said.

He cast me an icy glare.

“Anything else you want to interfere with?” he asked.

“That’s unfair. I didn’t even know Rico had decided to go.”

“Oh come on, Elio, don’t lie to me. You were with him while I was gone, he must have told you.”

I wasn’t going to let him get away with that.

“You better think twice before calling me a liar,” I said, “I have one name, one occupation and no criminal record. You, on the other hand,” I left the sentence eloquently unfinished.

“If you don’t like it,” he hissed, turning the water off.

“What,” I said, walking up to him, “If I don’t like it, what? I can fuck off, is that it? I told you already: no one’s going anywhere. Anyway, I know the game, it’s not like you haven’t played it before.”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t shut up. You are trying to make me angry so that I won’t ask you where you went this morning.”

“I’m not obliged to tell you.”

“No, but you better,” I spat out, staring him in the eye. He was furious, I could tell, and as upset as I was, I still found it super hot. I could have kissed him, bitten him, slapped his face, and we would have ended up having sex on the kitchen table. I entertained the possibility for a moment and I saw that he did too. It was that realisation which put a stop to the fighting.

“You are unbelievable,” he said, “You are always thinking of sex.”

I snorted, “You had the image of me bent over a chair stamped on your cornea.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I need a cigarette,” he said, with a sigh.

We went out on the balcony and smoked his Lucky Strikes.

“If you are free, we could drive to the Lake of Albano or to Ostia,” I suggested, “It’s such a lovely day.”

“What if I told you that I have things to do? Ivano is getting worse and I have some typing to do. I can no longer pay someone to do it for me.”

“I can type and you don’t need to pay me,” I said, “And I can come with you to see Ivano. He will enjoy the company, won’t he?”

Oliver tousled my hair, “Maybe we could go to Ostia tomorrow, if you are available.”

“Free as a bird.”

I was smiling so much my face hurt.

“And you are serious about the typing?” he enquired, with such a hopeful expression I nearly jumped into his arms.

“We’ll see,” I said, pretending to be stern, “It all depends on how honest you will be with me.”

“I’m telling you now that you won’t like it.”

He flicked the fag-end through the railings, plucked another cigarette from the packet and looked at me, waiting. I slid it between my lips and lit it. I sucked on it then gave it back to him.

“I don’t mind as long as you don’t share this,” I gestured between the two of us “With anybody else.”


	19. Bad News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good things happen, bad things happen.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Warning: death of a minor character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Banda della Magliana (Magliana gang) was involved in many crimes, including - some say - the attempted murder of John Paul II. According to one witness, they are still operating as we speak. *shivers*
> 
> Ciletto was the nickname of Angelo Cassani, who belonged to the Testaccini faction.
> 
> Bad News is the second book of the Melrose saga.

 

I had never felt so smug in my life.

Two typewritten pages in under thirty minutes with no errors: Oliver was perusing them with incredulity. He was trying to act professional, but his eyes were giving him away.

“That’s very good,” he murmured, while still scanning them. “You never said, back then, I wasn’t aware.”

“It’s recent,” I replied, “I find that it improves joints mobility. I helped _maman_ for a while; not that she needed it, but I prefer having an objective rather than doing it only as an exercise.”

“And not a single mistake,” he commented.

“To be fair, your handwriting is very easy to read, unlike my mother’s.”

Oliver’s cursive was a thing of beauty, almost like an organic continuation of his graceful limbs. I wouldn’t tell him that; I was keeping it for a more intimate moment.

He stroked my nape with his thumb.

“You have your studies,” he said, “And now  also a piano to practise on. I wouldn’t want to come between you and your music.”

I rolled my eyes, “Blah, blah, blah,” I mocked, “You are not coming between me and anything. No, I did not phrase it well.”

“How is the gutter today?” he grinned. “Only wondering, since your mind is firmly lodged there.”

“Ah, ah, so very funny,” I made a face, “You should be writing them down and collating them in to a book.”

That reminded me of Heraclitus. I stood up and browsed the volumes on the shelves behind the desk.

“You have a talent too,” I said, “And it’s a pity to let it go to waste.”

“I told you why I stopped writing,” he replied, firmly. I didn’t want to argue; that too could keep for another time.

There was something infinitely more urgent we needed to discuss.

“This private clinic I mentioned,” I started, expecting him to prevaricate, but he didn’t. “Sabino told me that his dad went there once for a minor operation. It’s called Villa Giulia and it’s in the Parioli area.”

Oliver sniggered.

“Your friend’s family must be rich.”

“I’ll pay for the tests,” I said, “It’s the least I can do.”

He paced the room, finally stopping in front of the French windows which opened on to the balcony.

“It’s all happening so fast,” he whispered.

“You told me you got tested in 1984: it’s been long enough.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I went to him, wrapped my arm around his waist and leaned against him.

“That’s life,” I said, “Nothing happens for ages and suddenly it’s one thing after another.”

“In my case, it’s Elio Perlman, every time,” he replied, kissing the top of my head.

“What can I say: I am a momentous kind of boy.”

“Not the word I would have used.”

I pinched his side and he laughed.

“What then?” I asked.

“Trouble-making, maybe?”

“Two words.”

“One word, hyphenated.”

He pulled me into his arms and I rested my head on his chest. His heartbeat was a comforting sound. I shut my eyes and listened to it, as though it was the sea inside a shell.

“I want our arguments to be all about silly things,” he said, “like who forgot to take the garbage out or whose turn it is to scrub the bathtub.”

“I thought Amalia did that.”

He heaved a theatrical sigh.

“I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I? What else did Rico tell you?”

I groped his butt with both hands.

“What a juicy watermelon,” I said.

“God in heaven,” he exclaimed.

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

It was at this point that he kissed me, probably to shut me up. I’d take that punishment any day, forever and ever.

 

Oliver cooked us lunch: fettuccine with marinara sauce and a tomato salad.

We drank white wine and as it often happened when I imbibed alcohol early in the day, I was soon tipsy.

“There is one thing Rico told me which puzzled me,” I said, after the second glass of _Frascati_. “You went all the way to Testaccio to buy groceries and I wondered why.”

“Maybe I have friends in that area,” he replied, avoiding my gaze.

“Could I meet them? Your friends, I mean.”

He cleared his throat.

“They are not the sort of people you’d want to be acquainted with.”

It was a working class area, but with many bars and restaurant. I had been to the famous _Trattoria Mommo_ a few times: it had always been crowded and fogged with cigarette smoke, but the food was amazing and dirt-cheap.

“I can talk to anybody,” I argued, “I am great friends with a cobbler, just so you know.”

I told him about Beppe, promising to introduce him to Oliver next time he came to my apartment.

“I wasn’t calling you a snob,” he said, “These people are related to Enzo. The least you know about them, the better it is.”

I recalled a conversation between my parents after the Bologna terrorist attack: it was about the Magliana gang, which had several factions one of which was named _I Testaccini_ , because the criminals resided there.

“Are you dealing with the Magliana gang?” I asked him.

He flushed, “Not directly, but I can’t rule it out. Once, in a bar in Via Marmorata, a dealer I knew by sight mentioned _Ciletto_. I never saw him again after that.”

I slammed the glass down on the table.

“You got to stop doing that,” I said, “You should leave this apartment and never come back. No one knows your real name, anyway. You rent a place at the other side of Rome, they will never find you.”

He smiled. “You’ve watched too many Hollywood movies,” he said, “No one cares about me one way or the other. The guys I deal with are small fry; Enzo treats me like family because of Carlo, but we are not truly friends.”

“But it’s thanks to him that you get the best stuff,” I argued, “So he must know somebody very high up, which brings us back to the Magliana gang. They are involved in all kind of crimes, you know that right?”

There were allegations that they were behind the attempted assassination of the Pope, among other dark deeds. It seemed unreal that Oliver could be consorting with notorious delinquents.

“I told you that I don’t take any money.”

“The police wouldn’t believe you.”

He caressed the back of my hand then his fingers closed around my wrist.

“Would you come and visit me in prison?”

“Fuck you,” I replied, but I couldn’t suppress a smile.

“And we are back to that again.”

I kicked at this ankles with my bare foot and he reacted by trapping it between his shins. We stared at each other, with defiance but also, as always, with latent desire.

“You are hurting me,” I lied.

“Then stop fighting.”

“You stop keeping things from me.”

He shook his head and poured himself a glass of water.

“You want to know about this morning.”

“It was still night technically, but yes, I do.”

“Okay, fine,” he conceded. “I seldom give people my phone number and I never tell them where I live.”

“But you make exceptions.”

“Very few,” he replied, “But in this instance, he stole one of my cards.”

My ears perked up.

“And who is _he_?”

“His name’s Tony, he’s barely eighteen and always in trouble.”

Oliver had left me in his bed to run to the rescue of a boy younger than me. Jealousy gnawed at me, but I kept it under wraps.

“Is he an addict?”

“And a male prostitute,” he replied.

“What does he look like?”

He shrugged. “Black hair, olive skin, brown eyes, skinny – obviously,” he said.

“A bit like me then.”

“Except you are not a coke-head with crabs,” he replied, “No, he’s not at all like you.”

I licked my lips, chewed the inside of my cheek.

“Has he ever propositioned you?”

Oliver chuckled.

“Yeah, he tried to jump me, which is also when he snatched my card.”

“Do you like him? I mean, in different circumstances, if you and he, would you have fucked him? In New York, before Kurt, would you have?”

“Maybe, possibly, yes, I might have.”

At least he was being honest.

We stayed silent for a while. I drank water from his glass and he sipped some of my wine.

“I might have,” he went on, “Because he’d have reminded me a tiny bit of you, but now I have you. You don’t settle for a generic hazelnut spread when you can have Nutella.”

He certainly knew the way to my heart.

“Nobody else’s ever compared me to Nutella.”

“Nobody else’s ever licked you from top to toe, I hope.”

I fondled my crotch, not even pretending to be subtle.

“My mind is not alone in that gutter,” I groaned.

“Why would it be alone? Wherever you go, I eventually follow.”

He pulled me up and on to his lap and started kissing my throat. I straddled him and threw my head back, letting him take what he needed. It was so intense, like every minute I spent with him. When his tongue brushed against mine, I shivered.

“Too much?” he murmured.

I giggled, nervously.

“We have to finish this conversation,” he added, “And I’ve got to see Ivano.”

“And am coming with you, but-”

“But, what?”

“You tell me.”

“Are you sleeping here tonight?” he asked.

“That’s a stupid question.”

Oliver retaliated by yanking my hair. I did the same to him, and this little game would ended up the usual way had he not remembered that he had to be at the hospital.

He deposited me back on my chair and smoothed his hair down.

“Like I said, Tony’s always in trouble and this morning was no exception. He was broke so he picked up a truck driver. The man took exception to being treated like a fag, even though he didn’t much object to being blown by one. Long story short, when Tony asked him for money, the trucker beat him to a pulp.”

“He should have called the police; the bastard shouldn’t have gotten away with it.”

Oliver chuckled.

“Tony didn’t want help from me,” he said, “He wanted something to take the edge off.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“No, of course not,” he replied, “I took him to a doctor I know. He patched Tony up and gave him something for sleeping.”

“Is that the man I met at the commune? They told me he’s not a real doctor.”

“He’s had his licence revoked. Don’t ask me why: I don’t know and don’t care.”

“Figures,” I remarked, “But the problem won’t go away just because you pretend it’s not there; same as the other things.”

“I preferred when you compared my ass to a melon.”

“It wasn’t me, it was Rico,” I protested, “I think it looks like an apricot.”

“Yours is like a tiny plum.”

I scowled. “It’s too scrawny and I hate it.”

“I’ll address this blasphemy later,” he replied, smiling. “Now it’s your turn to do the dishes.”

 

It was early afternoon when we got to the hospital.

The air was balmy and the _Ponentino_ was like a lover’s caress; not as sensual as Oliver’s, but then again nothing measured up to him.

When we reached Ivano’s room, his bed was empty.

A nurse came by, asking us to leave: they had to tidy up, she said, because a new patient was waiting.

“Has the previous patient been discharged?” he asked.

The girl, a sturdy blonde with a creamy complexion, wasn’t too keen on giving us information. She asked who we were and was not convinced about Oliver’s answers.

“Listen,” I said, “We only want to know what happened. My friend here is worried sick.”

She looked left and right to make sure no one was listening then she launched into a gesticulated narrative. Ivano had had a severe bout of toxoplasmosis, which had attacked his brain. He had been too weak to survive it.

“Can we see him?” Oliver asked.

“No, it’s impossible, I’m sorry,” she replied, “But I heard the doctor say that they contacted his family. They are coming to arrange the funeral.”

“They didn’t care when he was alive,” he said.

She said the usual platitudes and sent us on our way.

Oliver kept it together until we got to the car.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he shouted, kicking against one of the back tyres.

“Stop, come on, stop.”

He glared at me then clutched me tight to his chest.

He was sobbing and I cried with him.


	20. The Sea, the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver go to the seaside.
> 
> It's mostly dialogue but it's rather important and revelatory
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sea, the Sea is a Booker prize winning novel by Iris Murdoch
> 
> Thanks so much for your kind and lovely comments: I cherish them all.

Oliver’s eyes were red and swollen and his hands were shaking.

“I’ll drive,” I said.

That shook him out of his misery.

“You got a licence?” he marvelled.

“I could already drive when we met,” I scoffed, “I just wasn’t allowed to, yet.”

“You any good?”

I grew impatient at traffic lights and drove too fast, but I wasn’t going to own up.

“Never had any problems,” I replied, “It isn’t my favourite thing in the world, but you already know that.”

He handed me the car keys and I took my place behind the wheel. From the passenger seat, Oliver was staring at me.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Ostia,” he replied, “Is that too far for you?”

“Not as long as you’re my navigator.”

“From here it shouldn’t take more than an hour, if we are lucky.”

Ten minutes later we were in Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II and Oliver hadn’t said a word aside from the directions he was giving me. When we finally got to the long uninterrupted stretch of Via Cristoforo Colombo, I turned to look at him and caught him ogling me again.

“Are you being serious?” I joked.

“What, it’s just,” he mumbled then cleared his throat, “It’s new and it took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“You are taken by surprise by the fact that I can drive a car.”

He reached out towards the stereo, evidently wanting to cut our conversation short. I didn’t let him.

“No, you are telling me what you’re thinking then we can turn the radio on, if you like.”

Oliver mumbled something under his breath.

“I can’t hear you,” I said.

“I said: the radio won’t be the only thing that’s turned on.”

“You must be fucking kidding me,” I said, straightening my back so that he could get an even better view; I was going to milk this for all that it was worth. Milking, I had to briefly close my eyes at the thought. I reopened them immediately, in case Oliver accused me of negligence. thus spoiling the image of sex-god-driver I was aiming for.

“Sorry,” he sighed, “I know it’s indecent after what happened, but I’m not a particularly decent person, as we’ve established.”

“Maybe it’s your way to mourn,” I replied, caressing the clutch. “I’m not judging you.”

He stroked my wrist, briefly, and chuckled.

“It's always had this effect on me,” he said, “You playing the piano, or riding a bike, or handling machinery.”

“You’ve never seen me handle anything larger than a blender.”

“If memory serves me, Anchise taught you to use his chainsaw once.”

He was right; one of our pear trees had been felled during a heavy storm and I had wanted to show off to Oliver. It had been a terrible experience, but I’d received my compensation in bed that evening. I had not connected the two events or I would have asked our gardener to train me on a daily basis.

“Is that another one of your kinks?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he said, “It’s the contrast between your appearance and your dexterity.”

“Bit of a backhanded compliment,” I argued, “What you are really saying is that I look like a fairy that can’t lace his own shoes.”

“More like an angel who can’t be bothered with mundane chores.”

“Maybe I should chuck the Conservatory and start training as a mechanic or a plumber. That would push all of your buttons.”

Oliver clicked his tongue.

“Don’t even say that,” he replied, “Besides, the appeal is eminently intellectual.”

I whistled, “So you are a snob,” I said, “Rico suggested it and I defended you, but perhaps he was right.”

“You think I wouldn’t have fallen for you if you had been an electrician? Probably not, but that’s nothing to do with being a snob.”

“What’s it to do with?”

“You would have been a different person, not the bratty know-it-all that stole my heart.”

I pinched his arm, “I would have loved you even if you’d been a drug dealer. Oh wait...”

He fell silent and turned to gaze out of the window. I was such an idiot: he had lost a friend and I was hurting him instead of making him feel better.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did and you are right. I had stopped seeing my life through the eyes of those on the other side of the fence.”

“I am on your side, Oliver. I will always be on your side.”

“Ivano was such a great kid, you should have met him when I did,” he murmured. “He was nice to everybody, never hurt a soul and he’d dead. Me, on the other hand.”

The car gathered speed, but we were still within the limit.

“If you are saying what I think you are saying, I’ll punch your face as soon as my hands are free. How’s that for a fairy?”

“A bit too violent, I think.”

We smiled at each other.

“You deserve to be alive as much as he did. You are not perfect and he must have had his faults too. It would be like saying that your friend Tony was asking for a beating because of his profession.”

“I tried to talk him out of it,” Oliver said, “I told him I could help him find a job or a place to stay. I figured he was doing that in order to pay for the drugs.”

“And he isn’t?”

“Not entirely. He told me that he gets off on fucking strangers for money.”

“I could sort of understand that,” I replied, “If you could pick and choose your clients and make sure they are healthy and not psychos.”

“Wait, what are you saying?”

His scandalised tone made me smile but I kept a straight face.

“If it were done in a safe, controlled environment, like a brothel, I wouldn’t mind giving it a go.”

That should deal with his angel-fairy delusion, I thought.

“You better be joking,” he said, in a low and threatening tone.

I let him wallow in his jealousy for a moment.

“Of course I am joking,” I said, slapping his thigh, “But you should never take me for granted. I may surprise you otherwise.”

Oliver let out a stream of profanities accompanied by laughter.

“Consider me surprised,” he exclaimed. “Taking things for granted is no longer an option for me.”

“I could be your personal rent-boy,” I suggested, eager to steer him back to the topic of our love-making, “One client only, unlimited credit, no reasonable requests rejected.”

He smirked. “Define reasonable.”

“We’d have to negotiate that, but obviously nothing to do with violence or disrespect.”

Oliver replied that he would never care for that anyway: aside from being morally wrong, he said, it made him sick. I knew that already: he’d always been very careful not to hurt me in any way. I was the one who bit him and pulled his hair, which he greatly enjoyed.

“We can play all you like, as long as we are safe.”

That, as always, was the rub.

 

We tried all the free beaches but we couldn’t find a parking spot. Spring had barely started and Ostia was already crowded.

“There’s always the nudist beach,” Oliver suggested.

“Not a chance,” I said, “I’m not taking my shorts off.”

“No one said you should,” he replied, “It’s not mandatory.”

“Have you been already?”

“A couple of times, when I wanted some peace and quiet.”

I sniggered, “Yeah, nothing screams leave me alone like parading your body around a nudist beach. They must have been all over you, like flies on a corpse.”

“There’s a nice image,” he said, “I didn’t strip off and I found a spot far from the hill.”

The hill was the mound where cruising and sex happened.

“Okay,” I said, “But no ogling other men’s assets.”

“Says the boy who was always staring at my ass when I was his father’s guest.”

“That was different,” I argued, but he was laughing at me, “I know, I’m only having a little fun at your expense.”

“I’m not going to stare at dicks,” I stated, primly. That made him laugh even harder.

“We’ll see about that,” he concluded.

 

My parents had taught me to never be ashamed of my body and to wring as much pleasure from it as I could while respecting my partner’s boundaries. Despite their liberal approach to education, they had never practised naturism. I didn’t suppose they were against it, but I never really asked them. As for me, I had seen many naked bodies, but it had always been either in a sexual context or in the communal showers at the gym. I wasn’t prepared for the sheer amount of flesh on display.

In the boot of his car, Oliver kept a duffle bag with a few essentials, which included a large cotton throw that could be used as a beach towel.

The place was sparsely attended, at least compared to the other sites we had tried, so it had not been too hard to locate a secluded area where we could be comparatively alone. After we had settled down and removed everything but our underpants and sunglasses, I had a look around: there were mostly men and only a few women; the latter were topless, while the former tended to be in their birthday suit.

“You’re having a good time?” Oliver asked me in a sarcastic tone.

As he said that, a tanned dark-haired man walked past us, his dick swinging jauntily, like the tail of a happy puppy. It made me smile, because there was nothing sexual about it.

“Yes, I am,” I replied, stretching my arms above my head, “I’m feeling free.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, “In that case,” and he hooked two fingers inside the waistband of his boxers. I grabbed his hand and yanked it away.

“That doesn’t mean you are free to do that,” I said.

“I wouldn’t object if you wanted to.”

“Wouldn’t you really?”

“Allowing it and liking it are two very different things.”

I was thinking of a suitable repartee when I noticed a short hairy man glancing at Oliver. It wasn’t a lewd stare, more like someone trying to assess whether he really knew him or not.

“There’s a man who’s trying to catch your eye.”

Oliver sighed.

“Just ignore him and he’ll get the message.”

“Maybe he’s one of your clients.”

He sat up and looked at the man, who finally walked up to us.

“Kurt?” he said, with a marked Spanish accent. Oliver said and did nothing. “I’m Thiago, Peter’s friend.”

Oliver had removed his sunglasses and his features froze when Peter’s name was mentioned. He was still silent, so the man continued his introduction.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten me, but I was there when Peter passed away. You took care of Ivano. I would have helped but he wanted nothing to do with me.”

Understanding dawned on Oliver’s face, and it came with sadness and a hint of bitterness. He told Thiago to sit down with us and the man accepted. At close quarters, he was even more hirsute than I’d thought: the kind that had to shave twice a day and would never really be smooth-cheeked. His eyes were vivid brown and he had acne scars on his jaw. I gave him my hand and told him my name and he smiled at me, but I bet he would forget who I was within the hour.

“Ivano thought that you’d infected Peter on purpose, you know that,” said Oliver.

Thiago scratched the inside of his thigh, which was as furry as his chest. I kept my gaze away from his crotch, but I’d had a vague impression of a stubby penis, short and thick like its owner. Maybe dicks were like dogs, I pondered.

“That was bullshit,” he replied, “We were drunk, we fucked, it happens all the time, everywhere. I don’t believe what they say because, look, I am still alive. If that was the cause, I’d be dead too.”

“You are alive, but Peter is dead and Ivano too,” Oliver said, matter-of-fact. It hurt him to say those words, but only I realised that, because I knew him so well.

“I don’t understand,” Thiago murmured, shaking his head.

“Did you get tested?”

“I don’t need to,” the man replied, “I’m felling great, strong as a bull.”

“And you keep fucking anything with a dick, no questions asked,” Oliver remarked, with a bitter smile.

Thiago made a gesture with his hands as if to say ‘so what?’ which made me so livid I had to intervene.

“You are like a murderer,” I said, “There’s no difference between you and someone who sticks a knife into another person just for kicks.”

Underneath his tan and his stubble, he flushed.

“Hey kid, I am not forcing anyone to have sex with me,” he said, “It’s all consensual fun.”

“Right, like you never have sex while high.”

“It’s none of your business,” he replied, raising his voice.

“That’s enough,” Oliver interjected, “We have said all that we had to. You can go back to cruising on the hill or whatever it is you are doing here.”

Thiago seemed in two minds: part of him wanted to make a scene, but for some reason he was restraining himself. The motive became clear when he opened his mouth again.

“Sure, but is there a chance of getting some blow?”

“I’m not here on business,” Oliver said, all ice.

“Fucking nuisance,” Thiago muttered, as he stood up and left.

We followed him with our eyes, watching as he disappeared behind the hill.

“That’s an odd coincidence,” I said, “That we should meet him today of all days.”

“Not really. I believe he lives in Ostia Antica so this is his backyard.”

I was still fuming.

“I can’t believe his nerve,” I said, “Two people dead and he won’t even get tested, the absolute bastard.”

Oliver rose to his feet, ran to the sea and kept walking until I could no longer see him.


	21. Thorn in Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is a real thorn in Elio's side, but he's also the love of his life so...
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Next: tipsy fluffy smut....

The weather may have been summery but we were only at the beginning of spring and the days were relatively short.

The sun was going down, the beach was nearly deserted and I still couldn’t find Oliver.

I had swum towards the spot where I’d seen him disappear, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was a strong swimmer and the sea was calm, but he could have suffered from cramps or from momentary dizziness.

“Oliver, Oliver!” I called for him; a few heads turned, but not the blond one I was searching for.

I decided to give him ten more minutes after which I’d call for help.

The one place I had not checked was the hill, because I was certain he wouldn’t have gone there. But perhaps he’d met someone he knew and had been too involved in the conversation to be aware of time ticking away. I suddenly felt cold and put on my t-shirt and trousers. I felt his presence before I laid eyes on him.

I turned round and there he was, soaking wet and breathing fast.

“Where the fuck did you go?” I screamed.

He dropped down next to me and I saw that his skin was covered in goose-bumps. My wrath would have to wait, I thought.

“Get up,” I ordered him. His clothes were inside his duffle bag, so I shook the throw to get rid of the sand then wrapped it around him. I rubbed his back and his sides; he was trembling and his teeth were chattering.

“I was worried sick,” I scolded him, but he was not responding. It was when I wiped his face that he broke down. He let out what seemed more like a wail than a sob. Like the first fat raindrops give way to a raging storm, his whimper let loose a furious black desperation: his entire frame was racked and shaken by the strength of his cries. I used the throw like a cape to envelope us both, so that I could caress and kiss Oliver’s bare skin. When he finally calmed down, the sun was a violet stripe smeared over the horizon, between sea and sky.

“Put your clothes on,” I said, stroking his damp hair, “We’ll talk in the car.”

I was going to drive us again, I decided. Inside the Escort, I fished out the packet of Lucky Strike and lit two cigarettes, placing one between his pale lips. His eyes were swollen and had a forlorn expression which alarmed me.

“Why did you leave me like that?” I asked.

He sucked on the filter; his fingers trembled slightly.

“What you said about Thiago,” he murmured, “Could apply to me too.”

“Bullshit. You stopped having sex after Kurt.”

“Before that I slept around and I allowed men to go down on me without protection. I may have infected them without being aware of it. I was more careful than some, but I was promiscuous. And I did not get tested until after Fire Island.”

“You made mistakes, maybe, but that’s all in the past.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“It can’t be that easy,” he remarked, “Not when the consequence of one’s distraction is death.”

I pondered his words for a bit then took his hand in mine.

“The only solution is for us to get tested as soon as possible. If, like I believe, you are negative, nothing of what you fear would be true.”

He nodded, but was deep in thought. I left him to his own devices and he started talking as though to himself.

“It was so peaceful out there,” he murmured, “I wanted to keep going until there was nothing but water and loneliness. And I wondered whether it would be painful to go like that. Close my eyes and let the sea wash me away. So many artists and poets have chosen this method-”

It took me a second to realise that the loud smack I’d heard was that of my hand colliding with his face. I wasn’t sorry, only shocked. The cigarette had flown out of his grasp and we spent the next moments locating it and throwing it out of the window, together with mine.

There was a telling red mark on Oliver’s left cheek.

“You can’t do that to me,” I said, firmly, “Never say that again.”

His lips were a tight white line.

“I’m a thorn in your side, Elio,” he said, “Without me your life was amazing, you said so yourself. You were sleeping with girls and enjoying your freedom.”

I literally felt the blood creep up from my chest up to my face. I was furious and had never felt as impotent.

“First you talk about leaving me and now you want to, what, kill yourself?” I shouted, “And all just because you can’t face the truth?”

“I don’t want you to die because of me!”

“And your brilliant solution to the problem is death by drowning, on my watch? How do you think I’d survive that?”

“You are very young; you’d eventually get over it.”

I got out of the car, slammed the door and walked away to clear my head. Oliver was pushing me away again, hoping that I would be the one to break off our relationship. I would never do that, but I was tempted to leave him there to fend for himself. The image of a lonely, tearful Oliver was enough to sober me up.

When I retraced my steps, I found that he’d come to find me.

“You book the appointment and I’ll come with you, I promise.”

I smacked his chest with my fists before collapsing against it.

“I’d never get over it,” I whispered.

“My Elio, I’m so sorry,” he said, running his hands up and down my back.

We would probably need to see a therapist, regardless of the test results. Oliver had lived far too long with this death sentence hanging upon his head and I wasn’t sure we'd be able to cope with the fallout. He had been strong until he’d been forced to admit that he wanted a future with me, and now every single fear had come back to haunt him, like a congregation of malignant ghosts. And the desire we felt for one another was a devastating force which we could no longer stem. It was always there, simmering underneath our every gesture, aching to spill out. We’d had fights in the past and we had resolved them in the bedroom. I yearned to take Oliver to bed and fuck all of his troubles away, and I knew he wanted to do the same to me, with the same intensity.

 

On the way back, we stopped to have a dinner. We ordered a platter of fried sea food with chips and white wine. It was a Tavola Calda sort of restaurant, with red-checked paper covers on the tables and whitewashed walls.

“I’m starving,” he said, “And I can drink for once, since you are driving.”

“We’ll get a bottle of this to go, so that I can catch up with you later.”

We were back to flirting and I was more than up for it. The arguments were far from over, but I wanted to have fun and Oliver needed it more than air.

“You get horny when you are drunk,” he remarked.

“I’m always horny, but wine makes me soppy. Like that time I wanted to braid your hair.”

He burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, I’d forgotten that!” he exclaimed, “It was that afternoon I’d decided to get a haircut and you jumped at me.”

“Your hair was fine as it was.”

“And you claimed you’d show it to me and started braiding the hair at my nape.”

“Why did I stop?”

“You know why,” he smiled, “I always get hard when you play with my hair.”

“Does it happen when you go to the hairdresser too?”

He nodded, impishly.

“That’s why I picked an old man with a fat belly.”

“I could cut your hair,” I said, “When it’s time, which is far from now. I like you with longer hair; more to wrap around my fingers.”

“Would that be another of your talents?”

“Manu has a friend who could teach me. I’m a fast learner.”

The food arrived and we greedily tucked into it.

“I like Manu,” he said, after a while. “But I am glad you were no longer together when we met again.”

“I would have come back to you all the same.”

He gazed at me with a besotted look on his face.

“Your nose is sunburnt and freckled,” he said.

That was a bit of an anticlimax.

“I forgot the sun cream, but that’s not really-”

“One of those small details you never realise will hurt until they are all you can think about,” he went on, “The bow of your lips, the exact shade of green of your irises, the tiny folds of your belly.”

He drank his wine and I sipped my lemonade.

“For me it was the silly stuff, like when you forgot to zip up your shorts while I showed you around on our first outing.”

“I never did that,” he argued, wolfing down a mouthful of chips.

“Yes, you did. We were sitting outside the _bar tabaccheria_ and I was telling you about our pastimes. You looked down and realised your zip was undone.”

He grinned, “I was looking forward to being with you so I dressed in a hurry.”

“You liar,” I chided, “Did you really want to be with me? I got the impression you were bored to death and couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”

“It was my poker face.”

“And what happened to it?”

He licked mayonnaise off his fingertips.

“Waste of time I don’t have,” he replied.

 

Oliver slept during most of the journey back, while I listened to a mix-tape of classical music. I’d have preferred something jazzier but I didn’t want to disturb him. Luckily, I remembered the way and the traffic was less congested than it had been during the day. It was early when we reached Via Nicolai: the clock on the dashboard said 21:25.

I touched his shoulder then cupped his jaw. His eyes blinked open and he gave me a soft smile.

“We are home,” I said, “I’m not sure how to unlock the garage.”

He took care of it and minutes later we were in the elevator. I had the bottle of wine with me and every intention of drinking some if not all of it.

The apartment was warm and smelled of jasmine: we had left the French windows open and there were lights and noises pouring in from outside.

“Are you still sleepy?” I asked him.

“Never been more awake,” he replied, “There’s ice-cream in the freezer, if you want. Or we could go out; we never played that game of pool.”

“Another time,” I said, “I feel like we need to be alone for a bit. Besides, we have the place to ourselves so we should take advantage.”

Oliver smirked, “Not like we haven’t done what we wanted when Rico was here.”

I handed him the bottle and he uncorked it.

“You don’t know what I want to do,” I replied. “To start with, you could pour me a drink.”

It wasn’t long before the bottle was empty and my head was pleasantly spinning. Oliver had some vodka tucked away in the fridge and he was drinking it on the rocks.

“I’m gonna pretend this is a nudist beach,” I ran to the living room, shedding clothes along the way. We’d left the lights off aside from the reading lamp on the desk, which cast a reddish glow on the polished wood.

Oliver followed me, glass in hand. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” I said, undoing his pants.

I didn’t give him the time to remonstrate and soon he was down to his socks.

He looked down at his feet and scrunched his nose.

“That’s not at all attractive.”

I nodded, “They are my temptation shield.”

“What?”

“Sort of a cock-blocker,” I explained.

“Not working, is it?”

My dick was at half-mast and I wagged it left and right, making Oliver giggle.

“I just want to hold you,” I said, grabbing two handfuls of his ass and pulling him flush against me.

“We could dance here,” he muttered into my hair.

“I want something slow and dirty.”

He switched on the stereo and inserted a tape in the deck. It was a well known tango by Astor Piazzolla.

“I love this, Oliver,” I said, as he wrapped his arms around me.

We slow-danced in the dark, skin to skin, drunk and in love.


	22. Raging Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut happens....then other less savoury stuff.
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter's title is a play on words on Raging Bull, the film by Scorsese.

 

“What’s that?” I mumbled, distracted by the feel of Oliver’s chest hair scratching my cheek. I licked it with the tip of my tongue: it tasted of salt and lemons.

“It’s called Oblivion,” he replied, referring to the music.

His skin was hot and silky: perhaps it had been polished and scrubbed by the sand or maybe it was my touch that was turning it into velvet.

We had been dancing and making out, ignoring what went on between our legs.

Oliver seemed to read my thoughts, all of a sudden.

“Need to sit down,” he declared, then staggered to the couch and plopped down on it. I watched as he spread his legs wide. There wasn’t much light but enough to see how hard he was.

“Oh, Lord,” I whimpered.

“Your Lord and master, if you wish,” he smirked, raising one of his legs and slinging it over the armrest.

Right then I understood the meaning of tunnel vision: I could see nothing but the engorged flesh I wanted to hold in my hands and stuff inside my mouth.

I kneeled in front of Oliver and caressed his thighs, while gazing up into his eyes. His breathing was laboured and his lips were parted: I gave him my fingers to suck and he ate them up, arching his back.

At that point, I had to give my dick a couple of hard tugs; the sensation caused a tremor which Oliver felt through our connection. He lapped at my fingers once more then pulled them out of his mouth and guided them to his cock; I tried not to look at it too closely, because the temptation to gag on it was too strong.

“Fuck this,” I hissed, and nuzzled Oliver’s balls before sucking on them. He was hairy there too, and once he’d asked me if I’d prefer him smooth. I had replied that no, I wanted everything natural, as it was; that I was a savage and hated artificiality. With other boys, I had not cared one way or the other, but to me Oliver was the essence of maleness and I’d snarl at any attempt to dilute it.

 

I was suckling the root of his dick when he grabbed me by the curls of my nape and yanked me away.

We stared into each other’s eyes, panting. I was licking my lips compulsively, chasing the taste of his sex; Oliver was stroking his stomach and his belly, his eyes open wide, as though he’d just been taken by surprise.

“I want it,” I groaned, “Let me, come on, it was not-- it’s safe.”

“You have no idea,” he said in a croaking voice, “How close I was to shoving it in your mouth.” At that, we both moaned.

“I want to fucking choke on it, please, just, please.”

I was begging and I didn’t care. He needed me and I wanted to find out what his surrender tasted like. I did not mind that he was trying to keep me safe; I was only an animal desperate to satisfy his mate.

Oliver shook his head, “Soon,” he murmured. No matter how soon, it would never be soon enough.

He slid down the couch and fell on his knees, next to me. He turned me round and held my face in his hands. After having inspected it in silence, he smiled.

“You were right,” he said, “You are no angel.”

“Like you didn’t know that already,” I replied, feigning outrage. “You called me sick and twisted for a reason.”

“Many reasons,” he purred, bending down to kiss my throat. I realised where that was going and stopped him in his tracks.

“Your turn,” I complained, while at the same time playing with his hair.

His hand closed around my length and my torso bent like a reed in the wind.

“Unfair,” I gasped, and retaliated by fisting his cockhead. It was deliciously wet and plump; I make-believed that the pad of my thumb was the broad of my tongue and swiped the juices away.

“So good, hmm,” I chanted, and it drove Oliver wild. He curled his free hand around my neck and started jerking me off in earnest. I yanked a fistful of his hair and stroked him viciously hard, the way he liked it.

It was like catching fire and going up in flames together, our hearts beating as one to the very last.

 

Somehow, we climbed up on the couch and I collapsed on top of Oliver.

“We are smelly and sticky,” he grumbled.

“Your socks didn’t work,” I replied.

I helped him remove them, balled them up and use them to wipe us down.

“Better now?” I asked. He grimaced and wrapped me in his arms.

We dozed off and when we woke up it was still the dead of night.

“I’m so thirsty,” I said, rubbing my temples.

“Your lord and saviour will bring you relief,” he joked.

He got up and soon returned with a bottle of water and a fluffy blanket, which he draped over me while I drank.

“We could go to bed,” I suggested, stroking his arm.

His silence should have set the alarm bells ringing, but I was still woozy and a bit hung-over.

“I didn’t mean for sex, or at least not only that,” I said.

He cleared his throat.

“There’s something,” he hesitated, “I forgot to do; which I usually do, on Saturdays.”

I was wide awake in no time and needed to see Oliver’s expression. I darted to the other side of the room and switched on the main lights. It was an old chandelier missing most of his bulbs, but better than darkness.

“You are not going out,” I said, glaring at him. He bit the inside of his cheek but held my gaze.

“I have to, but it won’t take long, I promise.”

“Fine,” I replied, “I’ll go with you.”

“It’s not happening, Elio,” he said, and I discerned Kurt in the dry finality of his tone.

“Are you going to see Tony?” I asked, “Or is there somebody else you haven’t told me about?”

“No and yes, but not in the way you mean it.”

“And what way would that be?”

He made a noise of annoyance.

“I only have one lover and I’m talking to him,” he replied.

“You said that Tony tried to jump you,” I argued, “Next time it might be someone bigger and stronger.”

“I can defend myself, but it’s not that kind of assignment,” he said.

He was already putting his clothes on, the same he’d worn during the day, apart from the socks.

“I’m late already,” he said, grabbing his wallet and key-holder and heading for the door, “You don’t have to wait up.”

I ran to him and kissed his lips, biting at them.

“You’ve got to end this,” I told him, showing him that I meant it. “You know that, right?”

“Yes, I know,” he sighed. “I’ll tell them, tonight.”

 

I took a shower and sprayed Missoni Uomo all over my body, to smell like Oliver.

Since I had the place to myself, I indulged in a bit of snooping.

The large armoire in the bedroom was overflowing with clothes, but half of its contents did not belong to Oliver. Among his possessions was a charcoal grey suit with shiny lapels which almost had me drooling, and not in the canonical way.

Inside the chest of drawers, his underwear was neatly folded; I snatched a pair of red boxer shorts and put them on. They hung low on my hips, but I imagined that Oliver would enjoy the view.

Reading wasn’t an option, since I could not concentrate. One thing which could always save the day for me was playing the piano, so that’s what I resolved to do.

The Kreutzer Sonata beckoned me: I had been working on it with Sabino and I wanted to try a different approach, now that I was on my own.

I was so engrossed in the music that I did not hear Oliver’s footsteps, despite having left the door open.

He must have stood there for a while, but he only called my name when I stopped playing. I jumped out of my skin, “God, you scared me,” I giggled.

“Sorry,” he said, embracing me from behind.

I smelled blood before seeing it. I was used to its tang, because of my frequent nosebleeds.

“What the hell,” I swore and Oliver took a step back, setting me free.

His face was unmarked and so was his neck.

“Where is it?” I shouted, as I did my best to undress him. “What did they do to you?”

Oliver tried to grab hold of me but I was on a mission. When he finally got through to me, his trousers were undone and his t-shirt bunched up underneath his armpits.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he insisted, “Not a single scratch, I swear.”

“Fuck you,” I spat out, shoving him aside and running to the bedroom.

I threw myself on the mattress and curled into a raging ball.

Oliver came in, sat next to me and stroked my back, softly, saying nothing.

I ignored the tears streaming down my face and kicked at him with the heel of my foot. “Twice in a row is too much,” I growled, “I want you to stay here, in bed with me, all night every night.” I was being unreasonable, but to hell with being patient.

“Elio,” he said, softly, as though it were an endearment.

“Don’t Elio me!” I shouted, “You stink of blood, so unless you are telling that you are a vampire, something bad has happened.”

He ducked down and made a show of plunging his fangs into my neck.

“You idiot,” I cried, pushing and pulling him at the same time. He hid his face in my curls and murmured sweet nothings in my ear. After the day we’d had, I felt completely drained and I could tell he too was as exhausted. I flung my arms around him and pressed my forehead to his sternum.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

He did so while stroking and petting me. A fight had broken inside one of the many seedy bars in Testaccio. One of the men, apparently well known to Kurt, had a knife and had stuck it into his antagonist’s thigh. It had missed the femoral artery, but there had been a lot of blood.

“Could have been you,” I shuddered. “Is that common?”

“There’s a lot of posturing going on.”

“That was your pusher, wasn’t it, the guy with the knife?”

Oliver sighed, “You should stay out of it and no, it was not; I only know him as someone dangerous, so I generally avoid him. Tonight I was later than usual, that’s why.”

It was my fault – I thought – for being here and having sex with him.

“It’s not your fault,” he argued, and the instant he said it, I exploded with anger.

“Of course it’s not,” I replied, “And did you tell them that you’re done with it?”

There had been no time for discussions, as they had all been thrown out of the bar with an injured man on their hands. Oliver didn’t want to go into detail, but the gist of it was that no ambulance had been called but instead a white van had turned up and after a lot of swearing and spitting, the wounded man had been driven away.

“You should start writing again, but not about ancient Greek philosophers,” I said. “Did you get what you went there for, at least?”

He nodded, and I could see that he was ashamed.

“If you are going to San Lorenzo tomorrow, I am coming with you. Don’t even try to convince me otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, with a tentative smile.

We shared the bathroom, since I wouldn’t let him out of my sight: it was his turn to watch me as I relieved myself. If he hadn’t been so tired, he said, something would have come out of it. I would remind him of that later, because I never forgot anything.


	23. Lust, Caution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is split between Oliver's POV and Elio's
> 
> Kindly forgive the inane James Bond banter.... and the fluff....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lust, Caution is the title of a film directed by Ang Lee

 

It was a nightmare that woke me up: I was desperately trying to escape the weeds entwined round my ankles, pulling me down to the bottom of the sea. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t be rid of them. Oddly, I wasn’t out of breath, but my eyes saw nothing but darkness. I knew that I was rotting and the stench of decay was overpowering.

Elio was still asleep, his lips were parted and his cheek resting on the pillow. I wished I could preserve that peace and abandon, but the bell couldn’t be unrung.

I had considered all possible options, but short of going back in time, there was no way out for us: Elio was going to be unhappy unless I was healthy and I did not trust the temporary reprieve I had been granted. I felt the virus like a malignant presence hidden inside my cells, waiting to unleash its deadly tentacles when least expected. My dream wasn’t difficult to interpret - I thought with wry amusement - it didn’t require Freud or some abstruse decoding manual.

Doing my best not to disturb Elio, I got up and went to the bathroom. There was little natural light since the narrow window opened on a backyard surrounded by tall buildings. I looked at myself in the mirror and grimaced: I needed a shave and my hair was a mess.

“What a sight,” I muttered to myself.

The door opened and Elio’s yawning face peered in.

“Come back to bed,” he said, scratching his nose.

“Are you stalking me, Perlman?” I joked.

He padded in and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“Maybe,” he replied, kissing the hollow of my throat, “Why, is that a problem?”

“Not unless you are dangerous.”

He dragged his teeth along my collarbone.

“I’m getting there,” he murmured. “Come with me and I’ll tell you about it.”

We took turns using the toilet and brushing our teeth then we returned to bed. It was early still and we had been up late.

“I have been thinking,” he said, once we were lying down and he was half-sprawled on top of me. “I was serious when I said that you should be writing a novel about this. Kramer’s play is great, but he’s never been through what you have.”

“I’m not going to feed my personal life to the public.”

“You could embroider it a little,” he suggested, “For example, I could be a client who’s become obsessed with you and follows you everywhere. We fall in love and you save me from addiction and certain death.”

“Sounds unlikely,” I argued.

“Which part: the falling in love or the saving me?” he asked.

“Both; I wouldn’t get involved with a junkie and we can’t save those who don’t want to be saved.”

“ _Amor vincit omnia_ ,” he quoted.

“Or in your case, stubbornness and obsession,” I said, caressing the small of his back. I could barely see his face, but I could tell that he was pouting. He mumbled something to my chest.

“What’s that?”

“I said that just because you don’t feel it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

The absurdity of his statement made me laugh. He rolled off me and sat with his back to the wall, scowling at me. He was good enough to eat, with his slender chest and the sharp hipbones on which my red boxers sat enticingly low.

“You are so lovely,” I said, stroking his thigh.

“I bite and I scratch,” he replied, digging his nails into the back of my hand. I let him do it; I didn’t mind; in fact, I rather liked it. He chewed his lips as he marked my skin, but he took care not to make me bleed. When he saw the red crescents he’d caused, he bent down and kissed them multiple times.

“Sorry,” he murmured, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” I said, tilting his chin up so that I could brush his lips with mine, “I’m doing all the hurting at the moment.”

He kissed me but chastely. When I looked at his face, there was a defeated expression on it that I hated.

“There’s always one who loves and one who’s loved,” he said; clueless, adorable idiot.

I cupped his jaw within my hands and smiled at his puppyish attempts to push me away.

“I haven’t said it back because, well, many reasons. Top of the list is that I’m a fucking train-wreck and I don’t deserve you.”

He opened his mouth to speak but I stuck my thumb inside it to silence him.

“I love you, Elio Perlman,” I said, “I haven’t stopped since we met and I intend to keep on loving you, if that’s okay.”

Elio was wide-eyed and silent.

“I want very much to get into your pants too, in case you are wondering.”

He giggled, “These are your pants,” he said.

“Thieving magpie,” I replied, kissing the freckles on his nose, one by one.

 

We spent a considerable time making out and whispering endearments to each other. Elio was warm and soft in my arms and I never wanted to let him go. Things took a turn when he slipped his hand into the back of my boxers and from then it was a matter of getting off as quickly and safely as possible. It was a struggle, there was no denying it. Elio and I had never held back, despite his young age and my doubts on that score; it could not be the same again; that degree of innocence and trust could not be emulated but I hoped that we could grow used to caution as a constant companion to lust.

 

“We need to find a place to stay,” he said, as we were having breakfast. It was noon, so it was more of a brunch, with eggs, sausages and fresh fruit.  “I will ask Nash: he knows loads of people.”

He cast me a sideways glance and scrunched his nose.

“Rico will come with us, of course,” he added.

“Look, I know that you don’t approve of this set-up, but you live close to your school and I wouldn’t be able to afford the same size apartment in Trastevere. Here we have separate bathrooms and plenty of privacy.”

“This is the house of a criminal,” he argued, “And since you are going to mend your ways-”

It was true but hearing it spelt out in those terms set my teeth on edge.

“Enzo may be a lowlife, but he treated me like family.”

“Only because he thought you were Carlo’s lover. He doesn’t even know your real name. And please don’t quote Shakespeare at me.”

That was my Elio: when I was prepared to get angry with him, he said or did something silly which made me laugh.

“What?” he asked, his brows knitted forming a bushy line above his nose.

“Nothing,” I replied, pouring him a cup of coffee, “You are special that’s all.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he chided, but his eyes were smiling.

“Okay, right,” I sighed, “I know that I said Enzo is not a friend, and he’s not, but he helped me out when I needed it. Amalia lives nearby and she’s fond of Rico; he’s very sick and the last thing he needs is moving homes and changing habits.”

Elio was focussing on peeling an orange.

“I could move in with you,” he said, after he was done. “But I’m not sure you’d want me here.”

“You live close to your school and you have your independence,” I replied, “Why don’t we wait until the summer? It’s only a few months, anyway.”

“And in the meantime?”

He sounded defensive.

“We sort things out, make plans.”

I didn’t want to mention Rico’s health, but the doctors’ verdict had been grim: his immune system was shot and his T-cell count was dismal. If he survived the spring, it could be counted as a miracle. I didn’t want Elio to witness that, not on a permanent basis with nowhere else to go.

“Tomorrow I’ll ask Sabino about that clinic in Parioli. I’ll book us in for the first available appointment,” he said.

My insides turned to jelly at the prospect, but there was no other solution. I told him that it was fine, but that he should give my assumed name, since I had a national health card as Kurt, not as Oliver. That thrilled Elio no end.

“You are really like a spy, like a Jewish James Bond.”

“That would be something,” I joked, “Jewish and American: the English would have a collective fit. Besides, I can’t shoot nor do I ever intend to.”

“But you can prepare a killer Martini,” he replied, “One of the reasons I fell for you.”

“I thought it was my golden gun.”

He made a disgusted face.

“Vulgar,” he said in a haughty tone, then he slid a hand between my legs and palmed my crotch, “And very true,” he added, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I’m not going again,” I warned him.

“Who do you take me for?” he said, acting offended. “I can restrain myself.”

I looked down at his hand which was still fondling my genitals. He shrugged.

“I was feeling nostalgic,” he muttered, “And your reaction isn’t that different from back then.”

He looked so displeased that I thought he deserved a kiss.

“Gotcha!” he giggled, against my lips. I pulled him up from his chair and onto my lap and that put an end to the conversation.

 

***

San Lorenzo was much the same as the previous time, but colourful invectives spilled out of the open windows.

“Roma isn’t winning this time,” I suggested.

Oliver frowned at me.

“Last time I came, they beat Juventus. This doesn’t sound like winning,” I explained.

“Have you ever been to a game?” he asked.

“I’d rather watch the highlights on _Novantesimo Minuto_. At least I don’t risk getting trampled on by the Ultras. I have heard that it can get really rough.”

“I could take you, if you like,” he said, “Be your human shield.”

“I didn’t know you cared for Italian football.”

He smiled, “I don’t, but it might be the one chance I get of screaming obscenities at the top of my lungs.”

We’d done that in Bergamo, shouting each other’s names while running up a hill and it had been liberating.

“I’ll see if I can get tickets,” I said.

 

We climbed the stairs and we were greeted by the sound of a guitar being strummed.

“That must be Alex,” Oliver said.

“I saw a picture of him and Licia; there was another boy too. Is that his boyfriend?”

He nodded. “Was,” he replied

 _Was,_ I pondered with a shudder.

“Kurt!” It was a young man I’d not met the other time; he was plump and wore rimless glasses. Oliver introduced us; his name was Vasco and he was a volunteer, who helped with the cleaning and the cooking. Judging by the enamoured gaze he threw at Oliver, and the warmth with which he hugged him, I imagined that he might be gay too.

“Have you heard about Ivano?” he enquired, guiding us towards the latter’s room.

“Yes, we went to the hospital yesterday, but they didn’t allow us to see him,” Oliver replied.

The mattress on which Ivano has slept had been stripped and all of his possessions had gone.

“His parents came last night and took everything away,” Vasco explained. “Alex was the last one to see him alive. He’s in his room, if you want to have a word.”

“I have a delivery for Ines and Gio first,” Kurt replied.

Vasco told us that Gio wasn’t there, but that he could take care of it. Evidently Kurt trusted him, because he handed him a small package which he’d fished out of his duffle bag.

I was less than glad of meeting Ines again, but that was to be the way of things if I wished to be Oliver’s partner, and there was nothing I wanted more.

She had opened the window of her room and was sunbathing in a very tiny bikini. There were track marks on her arms and a red rash on her stomach. Not like KS, more like a bout of erythema. The room itself was a mess of discarded clothes, empty bottles and cigarette butts. She opened her eyes to look at us then closed them again, her lips curving in a lewd smile.

“Kurt’s got himself a boy toy,” she said, in a sing-song tone.

“If you shut up and put a shirt on, we’ll get out of your hair in double-quick time.”

“You are fucking up all my schedules,” she said, “Doc should come on Sunday yet here you are.”

“He was busy, so he sent me instead. If you have a problem with that,” he made as if to walk away and she jumped on her feet and stalked after him.

“Come on, don’t be a dick.”

“Charm on tap, aren’t you?” he smirked.

I was intrigued by this incarnation of Oliver and I could see myself like a junkie becoming obsessed with Kurt. In every imaginary universe, we’d always be together.

“He’s got it bad, hasn’t he?” Ines said, referring to me.

“Leave him alone,” Kurt said, and his tone brooked no dissent.

She did as told, but it was obvious that it cost her to be obedient.

“You got all of it?” she asked.

“In your dreams,” he said, “You’ll get some now and the rest when he’s back on Wednesday.”

They argued for a while and I admired Oliver’s sangfroid and his directness. He and that defrocked doctor were trying to wean Ines off the heroin by replacing most of it with methadone.

“And now you and Bambi can fuck off,” she announced, once she’d obtained what she craved.

 “Bambi?” he enquired, once we were alone. “I like that.”

I glared at him, and he burst into laughter.

 


	24. Only Life Will Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver in San Lorenzo and then in a pizzeria. Conversations, angst and fluff.
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Il Chiodo Fisso is a real pizzeria. To have a chiodo fisso means to be obsessed with something.
> 
> The lyrics quoted are from a 1980s song titled Con il Nastro Rosa (With the Pink Ribbon). They roughly translate as: Who knows who you are, who knows what you will be, who knows what will be of us. Only life will tell (it should be only time will tell, but that's poetry for you ha ha).
> 
> Thanks so much for your lovely comments and your support.

Alex recognised me instantly.

“The boy of the Camilluccia,” he said. He was strumming a well known Italian song on his guitar and Licia was singing along.

_“Chissà, chissà chi sei, chissà che sarai_  
_chissà che sarà di noi_  
_lo scopriremo solo vivendo”_

He didn’t seem surprised to see me with Kurt but the riddle was solved when he fished a book out of his battered Invicta: it was the Italian translation of Süskind’s Perfume.

“Ivano asked me to give it back to you,” he said, “He told me about you visit.”

“How was he when you saw him?” Oliver asked.

“In pain and his sight had gone, but he was still himself,” Alex replied, “He recognised my voice and asked me to thank you for what you did for him. A few hours later he fell into a coma.”

Oliver’s jaw was clenched and his eyes were bright.

“I need a cup of coffee,” Licia said, gazing at me, “Come and help me.”

Vasco was in the kitchen, but when he saw us, he muttered something about taking out the garbage and left.

“I can’t stand it,” she told me, her voice rough with tears, “One after the other, it’s just too much.”

“Let me,” I said, taking the coffee maker from her shaky hands. It was an old Bialetti of blackened aluminium with a burnt handle.

“The British have their tea and we have our moka,” I joked.

“Tea with milk,” she pretended to heave, “Sorry, but that’s just disgusting.” 

I laughed and she smiled; she had a lovely face and striking auburn hair.

“Do you live here all the time?” I asked her.

“The last time I went home my brother was organising a party for one of his snooty friends who’s studying at the Bocconi. They are all about designer clothes, models and fast cars.”

I nearly dropped the Bialetti: the first time I met them, they were busking for money and I had imagined they were both penniless.

“And they let you stay here?”

She shrugged.

“As long as they don’t have to pay for it,” she replied, “Dad was very clear: when you are here, you are one of us; when you are out, you are on your own.”

“What about your mother?”

“She slips me some money whenever she can, but she’s afraid of my dad.”

I wondered whether she was a student, but I didn’t want to pry.

When the coffee was ready we sat down and she told me more about her life; I guessed that she needed to, like a Catholic hankering for confession. She and Alex had been at school together, they’d always been friends. At first, they had thought they could be more, until Alex has realised that he was gay. There had been crushes and tricks, until he’d met Ottavio.

“With a name like that, he must be ugly and boring, that’s what I said,” she grinned. “But he was beautiful, blond with the green eyes of a cat.”

“He’s the guy in the picture, isn’t he?”

She nodded: such a tiny gesture yet it conveyed all her sadness.

The narrative went on: Alex and Ottavio had fallen in love, the two of them and Licia had become inseparable like the three musketeers. The first sign of Ottavio’s illness was a wart that wouldn’t go away; eleven months and two weeks later he was dead.

We drank our coffees in silence. I wondered what Oliver was doing and dreaded to think that he might be crying and I wouldn’t be there to comfort him. Perhaps that’s why he stayed away, because he didn’t want to distress me.

“Alex is sick too, but he seems to be resisting it, like Kurt.”

I felt as though I’d been kicked in the guts. She noticed and immediately apologised.

“I don’t even know what I am saying anymore.”

“Don’t worry, it was a fair assumption,” I replied, “Things are complicated.”

“You don’t have to explain, it’s none of my business.”

“We are going to find out soon, if that is, yeah,” I stared at the dregs inside my cup, trying to calm down.

A moment later, Oliver came in. I could tell that he’d cried, but he was back to his reticent, shut-off self.

Licia said goodbye and went back to her room, leaving us alone.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “She told me about Alex and Ottavio and I nearly lost it.”

He came up behind me and bent down to nuzzle my curls.

“Every time I’m reminded that you were facing this on your own,” my voice broke and Oliver pulled me up and into his embrace. “I will never go back,” I said, and he gazed into my eyes, puzzled.

“Back where?” he enquired.

“To my cosy life in Crema,” I replied, biting back as sob, “I will not pretend things are as they were, because they are not. We need to do more, and I mean my parents too. It’s not enough to be liberally minded.”

“Better than the opposite,” he argued.

“Yes, but not enough.”

Oliver held me tight until my anger dissipated.

“Let’s go,” he said, as he stroked my hair, “I am dying for a dinner of pizza and beer.”

I went to say goodbye to Alex, but he was resting. Licia hugged me and I gave her my packet of cigarettes.

 

“There’s this great restaurant near Piazza Trilussa,” I said, while we were walking back to the car, “But it’s too far, since we are staying at your place tonight.”

“Next time,” he replied, brushing his hand against mine. Some things never changed.

“Speaking of that, when will it be? Tomorrow I am going back to my place and I will be missing you like crazy.”

“I will phone you every evening,” he said, “We’ll think of something. Besides, who’s going to type my translation?”

“Ah, that’s it then,” I exclaimed, “You only want me for mercenary reasons.”

“Yeah, I wish you were my slave so that I could give you orders.”

That didn’t sound in the least unpleasant, at least in theory.

“Sometimes we could swap roles,” I said, tartly, “And you’d be my subordinate.”

“Damn, Elio,” he chuckled, “I’m trying to walk straight here.”

“Well, you started it so blame yourself.”

He playfully slapped the crest of my ass and laughed.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be so obedient, after all,” he said.

“I could suggest how you could punish me, but perhaps later.”

“Yes, later,” he agreed and briefly squeezed my hand.

 

Oliver took me to _Il Chiodo Fisso_ , a lovely little restaurant with an exposed beams ceiling and straw-seat chairs.

“Interesting name,” I said, when we got there. It was early for dinner, so we got what Oliver said was the best table. “Did you think of me when you ate here before?”

“I was trying not to think of you, but yes, you were on my mind,” he replied, as he scanned the menu. It was a perfunctory gesture, I was certain of that. Oliver would know what to order and it would contain meat, so the only option for a Jewish man was _bresaola_. I glanced down at mine and sure enough there it was: three colours pizza, with _bresaola_ , mozzarella and rocket. I opted for the Marinara, even though it would make me thirsty for hours.

The waiter was a spindly man with grey hair and the manners of a butler. Oliver knew him and addressed him as Cecco.

“I’ll have a _tricolore_ and a bottle of Moretti,” he said. We were minutes from his apartment, so he could afford to drink a little. I placed my order but chose the _Bière Du Démon_ instead.

When Cecco departed, carrying his notebook as though it were a bible, I beamed at Oliver.

“What are you smirking at?” he asked, covering my hand with his.

“I was sure you’d order that and I bet you knew already, even before sitting down.”

His gaze was a softer caress than that of his palm on my skin.

“You know me so well,” he said. I bit my lips because I really wanted to kiss him.

 _I’d kiss you if I could_....

He finally let go of my hand and brought the fingers that had touched me to his mouth.

“And I suspected you might pick the beer of the devil.”

“It’s a bit too strong for a beer, but I love it. Maybe we should have ordered water too.”

Just as I said that, Cecco arrived with a basket of bread and a bottle of Ferrarelle.

I thanked him and he sped away.

“How did he know?”

“It’s a secret,” he replied, but after I kicked his ankle, he explained that Cecco knew to bring him water because the _bresaola_ was rather salty.

“Do I have to call you Kurt here?”

“You don’t have to call me anything,” he said, flirtatiously, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“The toilet, maybe,” I considered for a moment, “But it’s true that I could follow you there,” I licked my lips, “You are right, I won’t need to call you.”

Two could play that game.

 

By the time the check came, I was more than half drunk. Oliver’s cheeks were flushed and he was smiling a lot, but he was hardly tipsy.

“I want to pay,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “It’s my turn.”

“Are we taking turns?” he joked.

“You can leave the tip, if you want.”

He insisted that he should pay his share, but I shushed him; since I was inebriated he let me have my way.

When we got to his apartment, after much giggling and accidentally bumping into each other, I reprised the discussion.

“I’m not your guest or your date,” I said, while we took turns using the toilet. Now we did that without inhibitions, but it still held the frisson of voyeurism that could spill into sex at any time.

“I never said you were, but pizzas and beers won’t ruin me,” he replied, as he washed his hands.

“That’s not the point. I want us to start behaving like a proper couple.”

“We’ll never be proper,” he said, shaking his head.

I nudged his side.

“You know what I mean,” I went on, “We are not only trying it on for size, this is _it_ , this is our life together, already, not in some distant future.”

He stopped in his tracks, toothbrush in hand.

“You are serious,” he murmured.

“I’ve been telling you from the fucking start, Mr Oliver-Kurt-whatever your name is. And again, don’t you dare quote Shakespeare at me!”

“You are obsessed with this,” he grinned, “ _Chiodo fisso_ indeed. Maybe I should just say it and be done with it.”

“Say what?”

He dropped down on one knee.

“ _What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet_ ,” he recited.

I tried to scowl, but in vain: a moment later we were both sitting on the floor, giggling like madmen.

“What’s on the menu for a proper couple then?” he asked, burying his face in my hair. I brought my hand to his chest and caressed the outline of his pectorals.

“Domesticity,” I replied, “You could get on with your translation, while I play the piano. I could type your pages while you read or listen to some music.”

“Hmm, I like that,” he whispered. I sought his lips and we kissed for a while.

I wanted him already and I could feel his desire too, but I intended to practise what I’d just preached.

“It’s still early and I would like to get my hands on your Fazioli again.”

Oliver grinned, “If that’s what you want to call it; after all a name is just,” he started, but I silenced him with more kisses.

 

We had agreed on spending two hours doing our own thing: Oliver, on his translation and I, on my transcription of a piece by Ligeti.

I wasn’t sober enough to last the entire time: it was only after ninety minutes or so that I went to look for Oliver.

He was wearing a pale blue pyjama, whose top was fully unbuttoned. In one hand was his Montblanc pen and in the other a cigarette. His hair was sticking out in all directions; on the desk there were numerous open volumes and an overflowing ashtray. The air was thick with smoke.

I tiptoed to the French windows and opened them wide.

“Is it two hours already?” he muttered.

“Got tired, but you can continue. I like to watch you work.”

He hummed and I went up to the bookshelf to find something to read. It was then that I remembered about Perfume.

“I forgot my book,” I exclaimed, “The one I’d given to Ivano.”

“It’s in my duffle bag,” he replied, indicating the object in question, which was on the low table by the entrance.

I could tell that Ivano has at least leafed through it and it gave me the shivers. The concept of mortality is always abstract until we get close to it and catch a whiff of death. I looked at Oliver, beautiful precious Oliver, then closed my eyes and imagined him gone forever.

I’d rather be dead too, I thought, and meant it.


	25. Lorenzo de Medici

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are set in motion...
> 
> Elio's POV

I must have fallen asleep; but no, that was impossible.

“What’s happening?” I mumbled. I wasn’t standing on my legs yet I was moving.

Someone chuckled. Oliver.

“I am taking you to the bedroom, sleeping beauty,” he replied.

He had picked me up from the couch, he explained, because he didn’t want to wake me. I was drooling a little on his collarbone, which smelled of tobacco and clean sweat.

“I wanted to watch you work,” I complained.

“You did and that’s the result,” he joked.

I asked him to put me down, but I wasn’t that convincing. I didn’t mean to be.

He had to bend his knees to deposit me on the mattress and I caught a whiff of sweat from his armpits. Before he could move away, I grabbed him by the shoulders and licked a line from his bare sternum up to his throat.

I let him go, smugly appraising the tent in his pants.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, “Just checking that I haven’t set the desk on fire.”

I licked my lips and stroked his thigh with the sole of my foot.

He returned in record time.

 

“Don’t take it off,” I said, as he was about to remove his pyjama top.

“Okay,” he said, clearly disappointed.

I scooted closer to him and ran a hand across his chest. “I like you half naked,” I whispered.

“More than naked?” he asked, fingers combing through my hair.

“I can do this.” I yanked the shirt off one shoulder and buried my face in the fold of his arm. His musk was stronger there and I only wanted to feel that he was alive and healthy. He let me be, occasionally murmuring sweet words and caressing my back.

We won’t go further tonight, I thought: only two bodies enjoying the pleasures of touch and proximity.

Obviously, it didn’t go as planned.

I let my hand roam and it soon landed on his lower belly, which tensed up at the contact. There was something in that response, the immediacy of it and the slight tremor that rippled beneath the surface, which awakened the sensualist in me. I had two choices: continue my slow progress down or go for a bolder approach.

I shoved my hand down his pants and grabbed his cock, as I dug my teeth into the tender skin of his armpit. Oliver cried out, not checking himself since we were alone, and I got as rabid as a wolf at the scent of blood. He arched his back and I got rid of his pyjama; he was letting me do as I wished so I tongued him all over; his dick was already wet: my hand glided up and down its length. I was hypnotized by the sight of the purple head appearing and disappearing from the ring made by my fingers.

“Fuck’s sake, Elio, please,” he gritted out, when he couldn’t stand it any longer.

The interval between his plea and my reaction was too much for him to bear: he rolled me over and pinned me to the mattress; he then put his mouth on my clothed dick. It was a surprise to realise that I was still wearing my boxers.

“Come here, I need you,” I moaned, and his kiss bruised me and healed me.

His eyes stared into mine for the longest time and everything else became secondary: the grinding, panting, stroking and even the rush of our orgasms; nothing was as powerful as the depth of his blue eyes, the myriad things I read in them and the certainty that he loved me as much as I loved him.

Afterwards, I had trouble keeping my eyes open long enough to tell Oliver that I needed the alarm for 8am.

“I’ll take the metro,” I said, remembering that he had to stay at home to wait for Rico’s phone call. He agreed, reluctantly, and curled his body around mine, spooning me.

We stayed like that until the morning came.

 

Back at the Conservatory the next day, I felt as though I’d landed on a different planet.

“You with us, Perlman?” Sabino enquired during a coffee break.

I took him aside and he joked that I was trying to abduct him.

“I need your help,” I said, “The clinic your dad went to, in Parioli. Kurt and I want to get tested.”

He didn’t pry, which was one of his best qualities.

“The best is Doctor Vergani, I think. She studied in the States, so she speaks fluent English. Plus she’s been in the team that’s trialling AZT. It’s going to cost a packet, though, because she’s a big shot.”

“Money is not an issue. Could you give me her number?”

“Dad just got back from Atlanta. I’ll phone him at lunchtime,” Sabino replied, “He’ll be too jet-lagged to ask questions.”

“You always approach him when he’s at his weakest?”

My friend rolled his eyes.

“Of course, that’s how you deal with dangerous animals and nosy relatives. Do I have to teach you everything, _mon petit chou_?”

 

Armed with Dr Vergani’s direct number, I went to the nearest phone box and dialled before I could change my mind.

It was a few minutes past four, but the sun was merciless: inside that glass cage, it was stifling hot and reeking of cigarette butts and piss.

Her assistant replied; after a couple of seconds of blankness, I asked for the doctor, mentioning that Sabino’s father had recommended her. I was told to call back after six. I put the handset down and decided that I’d go there in person. I opened the _TuttoCitt_ _à_ and found the clinic on the map. It would take some time by bike but I had nearly two hours to spare.

 

Villa Giulia was called that for a reason: it was a grand mansion surrounded by luxurious gardens. There were expensive cars parked outside, and nurses with immaculate uniforms were walking patients along gravel paths criss-crossing the verdant lawn. The revolving doors nearly hit me in the face: I hated them: I could never decide whether to go fast or slow; often I was tempted to just stop in the middle and to hell with it.

 

The voice on the phone belonged to a woman with curly brown hair and heavy breasts of the type that starts sagging at a young age. She must have been around thirty and was surprised when she understood who I was.

“I meant that you should telephone,” she said, “But since you are here, please take a seat.”

I was given a copy of Panorama to read while I waited, but I politely declined. I had my books with me and tried to concentrate on an essay about harmony, but the words danced vainly before my eyes. About twenty minutes had elapsed when in came a short woman with her blonde hair in a chignon like that of Madeleine in Vertigo. Her face had none of Novak’s stillness, but was both intelligent and tired. The two women confabulated for a moment then the blonde one came up to me.

“Vergani,” she said, giving me her hand. I shook it and felt instantly reassured by her warm grip.

I told her everything and she didn’t have to press me. I guess that’s what priests and skilled psychologists excel at, and she could have been either.

Her grey eyes did not judge, they simply took in what they encountered and dealt with it, scientifically.

“Is your partner a drug user?” she enquired.

“No, I mean, he might smoke a joint once in a while,” I stopped, blushing, “Marijuana, you know.”

She smiled, “Yes, I wasn’t born yesterday.  I meant, does he use needles?”

“No, we are both clean.”

“You are certain of that?”

“One hundred per cent,” I replied.

She looked at me and nodded, “Okay, I would like to talk to him too, but it can be done before the test. I have already checked my diary and I could fit you in first thing on Wednesday morning.”

“This Wednesday?”

“Yes, the day after tomorrow,” she answered, smiling, “I’ll see you and your partner then,” she added, as she rose to leave.

The assistant took down my details and Kurt’s and she handed me a leaflet with all the information on what to do and what to avoid before taking the test.

 

When I arrived in Vicolo della Frusta, Beppe was chatting with a customer.

“Elio,” he called out, as soon as the woman departed, “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“I was with a friend,” I replied and he made a knowing face.

“Is she a blonde or a brunette?” he asked.

“Blonde,” I replied, feeling a traitor. I didn’t have the strength to come out to my friend, but I accepted to linger on when he offered me a cigarette.

“You are pale,” he said, “Don’t overdo it: it will keep.”

“Will it?” I replied, “What was it that Lorenzo de Medici said: _chi vuol esser lieto, sia; Di doman non v'é certezza_.”

“True,” he nodded, “And I told you to go and have fun. But you are young and you have time.”

I hastened to change the subject.

“What did Roma do?”

“Won 1-0, but Graziani left it very late,” he sighed, “Ciccio is always unpredictable.”

“You love him really.”

“I’d buy him a drink, that’s for sure.”

We finished smoking and I got up to my apartment. I was pouring myself a glass of wine when the phone rang. I picked up and felt my heart in my throat.

“Pronto?”

“It’s been a long day,” Oliver said, “I’m so happy to hear your voice.”

“What happened?”

“Sit down,” he replied, “This will take a while.”

I did as told and he continued, “Rico had forgotten his brown folder so the hospital receptionist sent him away. Rico’s brother started shouting at them and they called security. In the meantime, Rico had fainted because he’d had nothing to eat since the previous afternoon. Luckily, his doctor turned up and got very angry at the way the situation had been handled. When Rico regained consciousness, his brother had been sent home to retrieve the folder, but this information did not reach Rico. He phoned me and I drove to his brother’s house but there was no one there. I then went to the Policlinico and collided with Rico’s brother who threw the folder at me and walked away, muttering to himself.”

“Poor _tesoro_ , I’m so sorry.”

“Good news is that his lungs are doing marginally better, despite the cough.”

“That’s great,” I said, “Is he there with you?”

“Amalia just told me that he’s gone to sleep. Staying at his brother’s didn’t help.”

“Did they fight?”

“He didn’t say, but from what I could tell it was a strain, which is the last thing he needs.”

“And that dick assaulted you,” I hissed.

“He didn’t attack me, but I agree that he’s a dick.”

“I wish that I was there with you,” I murmured. “Have you had dinner?”

“Not yet,” he replied, “Gonna heat up some lasagne in a minute. What about you?”

“I’m too nervous to eat,” I said, and explained about the clinic and Doctor Vergani.

“That’s very soon,” he observed, “Why don’t you stay here tomorrow night, so that I can drive us there?”

I was about to ask, but as usual he’d read my mind.

“I can be at yours by six unless it’s too early.”

“If you tell me at what time you are done, I’ll come and pick you up.”

“Be outside the Conservatory at four.”

He made a sound of assent.

“God, my heart is beating so fast,” he said, “And I miss you so much.”

“Same here,” I replied, “I wanted to tell Beppe about us, but I chickened out. I was afraid it would jinx things.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ll come and say hi when this ordeal is over.”

“Yesterday,” I started, hesitated, went on, “It was different wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “But we’ll talk about it in person.”

“I want to sleep with you every night,” I insisted, “Tell me that you want that too.”

“We spoke about it.”

“And it was bullshit,” I quoted, “ _Whoever wants to be happy, let him be so: of tomorrow there's no knowing.”_

“Lorenzo de Medici,” he said, “Is there anything you don’t know?”

“One thing I do know: I hate long distance relationships.”

“We are in the same city,” he chuckled.

“It’s a fucking big one and I want to be in your bed.”

“Sounds like you’ve already decided.”

I laughed, “Problem?”

“We were always going to end up there,” he replied, “I can’t be without you either.”


	26. Clementizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver goes to San Clemente and has a revelation... not in the way you might think.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

I replaced the handset and a wave of panic swept over me: what had I just agreed to? Days and weeks of waiting for something that could end up being an ulterior confirmation of my illness; of my loneliness. It had to be done, there was no way out.

Amalia emerged from the kitchen and asked me whether I wanted some of her _peperonata_ with my veal.

“Did you put garlic in it?” I enquired.

She said something in Roman dialect that I did not understand, but the sense of it was clear.

“Okay, okay,” I replied, not to upset her. After all, I didn’t have to kiss anyone later that evening.

She had a mass of greying hair which she arranged in a loose bun; her hands were red and plump and she had no discernible waistline. Amalia’s deities were food, Rome and the Pope. Not God, whom she mistrusted since the all-seeing had never set foot in her beloved city. God might be everywhere but that was too nondescript for Amalia. She didn’t know what I did for a living nor did she care; the mere fact that I’d moved from the States to Rome excused any other sin I might have committed. I was a man of great taste and my apartment had a view over the Vatican: I simply couldn’t be bad.

“Hurry up, Kurt, come eat or it will get cold,” she said. She pronounced my name adding an ‘e’ at the end, _Kurte_ , in the Roman way.

I wouldn’t have let my mother treat me like that, as though I was still a boy, but Amalia always made me smile. I wondered what she’d have made of Elio; fallen in love with him, surely. Maybe it was time to tell her.

“I have bumped into a friend I hadn’t seen in a long time,” I said, while she was pouring the wine.

“Elio, yes, Rico told me already,” she replied.

I kept forgetting that I was in a country that idolised gossip and had made it into an art.

“He’s a student and we have plenty of room here.”

“The more the merrier,” she declared, nodding her large head, “That boy needs company,” she added, “And you too.”

And that was all she had to say on the subject.

 

After dinner, I had a few deliveries to make but all in the same area, the Rione Monti. The last drop was outside the Basilica of San Clemente: a man in a black Porsche handed me a padded envelope filled with banknotes in exchange for pure heroin. The church appeared even more ancient and dignified in comparison to the episode it had just witnessed. I felt soiled and as old as its original foundations.

I had parked the car, and as I retraced my steps, I felt the sudden need to hide inside the Mithraeum of the Basilica; it was the sanctuary of the cult of a god that preceded Christianity and therefore didn’t conflict with the religion I had vainly tried to desert. Was there a temple that would accept me without judging me? I didn’t believe so, but I yearned for the comfort of prayer and for the consolations of art.

Perhaps Elio was right when he said that I should have started writing again; although it was not the creative process that I missed, but the research and the total immersion in the distant past and its fascinating ways.

It was too late to visit San Clemente; I would have to come back by daytime and maybe ask Elio if he wanted to accompany me. I knew he had noticed I wasn’t wearing my Star of David, but he had not remarked on its absence. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go back to my religion; maybe it wasn’t god that I missed, or the rituals I was familiar with, but the shared experience of something other than our mortal selves. Churches and temples are the places where the living commune with the dead.

 

I didn’t want to return home yet. Rico had been given a sedative and would sleep until morning and I didn’t feel like working on my translation. I would look up from the page and stare at the couch, hoping to find Elio there. He had been a distracting presence, even though he’d said nothing and had soon fallen asleep.

Would I ever get used to living with him, I wondered. Would it lose its charm and become a habit? It must, at some point, but I did not truly believe it.

 

I drove to Garbatella: Doc lived in a _casa popolare_ in Via Padre Semeria, an ugly yet rather modern building not far from the park; perfect location for Tony, provided he was still there, which seemed unlikely.

I pressed the number 27 and waited.

“Yes?” Doc's tired voice asked a minute later.

“Kurt,” I replied, and he buzzed me in.

I climbed the stairs up to the second floor and found his front door open.

“Come in,” he shouted, and I complied.

The usual chaos greeted me: suitcases, shoes, stacks of old medical volumes, piles of clothes.

He was on the phone, grunting instructions at someone who evidently was not listening or doing as told. I didn’t have to wait long before he terminated the call with a “Go to hell”.

“I thought you were Tony,” he said, throwing me a pack of Camel.

“When did he leave?”

Doc took a swig from a bottle of Ceres and bit back a belch.

“The same day, I think. I went out and when I came back, he was gone. He’d tried to break into the supply room,” he laughed, “You couldn’t force that door if you wanted to, imagine that slip of a boy.”

“Why did you think I was him now?”

“He phoned me yesterday, begged me for your address. I said I didn’t have it, because I don’t. He has your number, but he said it’s not listed.”

A shiver ran down my spine at the thought of Tony knocking at my door while Elio was there.

“What does he want from me?”

Doc smirked, “The usual, I guess.”

He was a big hairy man, not gym-trained but strong and up for a fight.

“Tony knows the score,” I said, sucking on my cigarette, “I don’t see what’s changed.”

“Maybe he got tired of having the shit kicked out of him and is looking for a protector.”

“That’s not me, he better get that idea out of his mind.”

Doc pressed the beer bottle to his cheek.

“You’ll have your work cut out for you, with that one,” he replied.

I finished smoking and stood up to go.

“I nearly forgot,” I said, handing him a box of morphine vials.

“Love or money?” he asked, examining the drugs.

“What?”

“Men are distracted by love or by money troubles.”

I looked away.

“Those leading ordinary lives,” I remarked. “That doesn’t apply to us.”

Doc threw me an amused glance, “If you say so,” he said.

I left feeling even more unsettled than when I’d arrived.

 

I was unlocking the car when I felt someone behind me. My current occupation had sharpened my sixth sense and made me wary of strangers lurking in the shadows.

“Tony, is that you?”

“Fuck me, you are good,” he exclaimed, jumping out from behind a dumpster.

His face was still bruised but it was healing well.

“I can’t believe my luck,” he smiled, stroking his bare collarbone. He was flirting with me, the little shit, and I was reminded of Elio’s face, of Elio’s skin.

“I could spare you some junk, but I’d rather you asked Doc for methadone.”

“He won’t let me in,” he replied, licking his full lips.

“That’s because you tried to steal from him, you idiot.”

He moved a step closer, wiggling his hips.

“You can’t blame a boy for trying,” he murmured.

I was thinking of how to nip that silly game in the bud, when he shoved me against the car and tried to kiss me on the mouth. He was skinny but determined and it took me a moment to immobilize him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I growled, “Want to ruin whatever good is left in your life?”

He tried to free his arms and when he realise he couldn’t, he stuck his tongue out, wanting to lap at my skin.

“Stop it!” I hissed, “That’s never going to happen.”

“Why? Because you find me disgusting?” he asked. “I could blow you, I am a great cocksucker.”

“I don’t do that, I told you a million times.”

He stared at me with his wide brown eyes then clicked his tongue.

“Liar,” he said, “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

“None of your business,” I spat out, but he’d lost his momentum. I let him go and he started walking towards the park

“I can give you a lift, if you want,” I said, but he didn’t turn around.

Before I had been agitated and now I was horny: well done, Oliver.

I got into the car with every intention of driving home, but as soon as I was on the road, I knew I didn’t stand a chance.

 

***

 

The stress of the afternoon had left me drowsy. After my phone call to Oliver, I had tried to study but my eyes wouldn’t stay open.

I slept for a while and woke up only because my stomach was growling.

The fridge was a nearly empty, but with a jar of mayonnaise, one of capers, and a tin of tuna, I had enough ingredients for a sandwich. I ate while working on a transcription. Mafalda would never have allowed me to do that, I thought. I missed her, even though she treated me like a kid.

I was washing the plate and the cutlery when I heard the banging on the door. I checked my watch: it was nearly midnight. I wasn’t expecting a visit and the only person who would turn up announced was Silvia. And when she did, she was after one thing only: sex. Well, that wouldn’t happen, I thought, but I’d have to let her down gently.

“Okay, give me a second,” I shouted, as I dried my hands on a dishrag.

I wasn’t prepared for what happened after I let the visitor in: Oliver put his mouth and hands on me, moaning my name while he sucked on my throat, my collarbones, my nipples. Soon I was shirtless and hard and utterly exhilarated.

“What the fuck?” I asked, after he’d carried me to bed.

“I’ll tell you later,” he replied, slipping his tongue inside my mouth. His hands were everywhere and I had trouble breathing, but I knew he needed to come and I wanted his hot spunk on my skin. I told him, begged him, and he stroked himself furiously until his pleasure crested and he screamed my name and called me his love.

“I came in my shorts,” I told him, when he touched me there. He grinned. “Don’t say anything; it was your fault,” I chided.

“How was that my fault?” he asked, biting down on my earlobe.

“I wasn’t ready,” I replied, “I thought you were Silvia, this girl I used to sleep with.”

He buried his face in my neck. “And in that case?” he enquired.

“I would have explained that I am no longer available,” I replied, “And you, what’s going on?”

He told me about his evening, about San Clemente and Garbatella, about the Doc and Tony. I wasn’t jealous, but if I’d been there, I’d have kicked Tony’s ass.

“You weren’t tempted even a little?”

Oliver shook his head.

“I saw his naked shoulder and only thought of yours.”

“Did he touch your dick?”

“He tried,” Oliver replied, with a wink.

“Tell him that if he tries again, I will break his arm. No, don’t, I will tell him in person.”

I gave him a biting kiss and pulled his hair until he was whimpering in my mouth.

“I wish I could sleep here with you,” he said, when we came up for air.

“I’ll pack a bag and come to your place,” I replied, “I’ll  collect the rest of my stuff when I need it.”

I had expected Oliver to object, instead he smiled with his whole face.


	27. Moving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy chapter before the angst.
> 
>  
> 
> Elio's POV

“I could leave the bicycle with Beppe,” I said, “He’ll look after it.”

Oliver shook his head, “You’ll need it. I know you don’t like taking the metro when it’s hot.”

“Can you blame me? The carriages on the A are like furnaces.”

“And that is why we are taking your bike with us.”

We finally managed to wedge the Legnano in by folding down the Escort’s back-seats.

“Do you have a _TuttoCitt_ _à_ or should I grab mine?”

I wasn’t familiar with his part of Rome and I didn’t want to be dependent on him or on public transport.

Oliver smiled, “I must have at least ten of them. Every year they deliver a copy along with the Phone Book. Amalia collects them religiously. I suggested we return them, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Does she know that I am moving in?”

“She said I needed company.”

“I think we’ll get along just fine.”

He strapped the Legnano in to hold it in place and soon after we were on our way.

 

“What does Amalia know about you?” I asked, “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

Oliver squeezed my knee and I stared at his large hand, remembering how insistent it had been only minutes ago.

“She doesn’t know about the drugs and I’d like to keep it that way. I have never spoken about my sexuality, but she must have guessed. She’s in love with Rome and with the Pope, so no discrediting the Vatican and its dodgy bankers.”

“I was just thinking about writing a piano concerto inspired by the Freemasons and their dark deeds,” I said, “The preliminary title is Blackfriars Blues.”

“As long as you don’t suggest to her that the Vatican had Calvi murdered,” he replied.

“Everybody knows that already.”

“It was suicide according to the authorities.”

“Suicide, my ass,” I snorted. “He had bricks in his pockets.”

He gave me a sidelong glance.

“You shouldn’t discuss this openly,” he said, “It might be dangerous.”

“I was only joking. I have no intention of mixing music and Italian politics. But you could write a book about it. You already have the title.”

“How generous of you,” he jested.

“I believe in spreading the creativity around.”

“Let’s see: one novel should be about love and obsession among addicts, while the other about money, religion and corruption. That covers most bases: I’d have nothing left to write about when I get to my third book.”

I moved closer and kissed him on the cheek.

“I will think of something, I promise,” I murmured.

“That’s what I am afraid of,” he replied, leaning into the touch.

“And I won’t upset Amalia,” I added, “I will behave like a typical Italian boy that misses his _mamma_. I hope she doesn’t have anything against Nutella.”

“She’s a great fan of food,” he said, “And you are so skinny she’ll want to feed you up.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” I remarked, “Unless you prefer to cook for me.”

“We’ll see,” Oliver smirked, “Don’t want to start spoiling you.”

“Why? I intend to spoil you any chance I get,” I argued, stroking his thigh. I had got as far as the crease of his groin when he batted my hand away.

“You’re a menace, that’s what you are,” he complained.

“I wanted to give you a reason to go faster.”

That very instant, the traffic lights switched to night mode.

“See? Even the road signage agrees with me,” I said, smugly.

Oliver accelerated at once, making me shriek.

“Fast enough for you?” he mocked.

I rolled down the window and let the warm air in.

“I love this, Oliver,” I said, enjoying the soft caress of the _ponentino_.

“Yes,” he agreed, “It’s perfect.”

 

I left my bags in the piano room and only unpacked what I needed for the night and the following morning. I had a late start and Oliver had planned to make a significant dent on his translation.

“You can work on it tomorrow after I am gone,” I said, batting my eyes at him.

He sighed and pretended to be annoyed. We were in the bedroom, but he suddenly walked out, without saying a word. I let him go and stripped down to my t-shirt and boxers, ready for bed. I was arranging the discarded clothes on a chair when he returned.

“These are your keys,” he said, handing them to me. He explained which was which, but I was only partially listening. I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his face.

“Our first home,” I exclaimed, trying to keep my voice down, “I will need a handbag just for these.”

“They fit inside my pocket,” he argued.

“You are a giant with giant pockets,” I said, “I’ll ask Manu to lend me one of her bags. I’ve had my eyes on a leather messenger she bought in Florence.”

“What’s wrong with your Invicta backpack? I am rather fond of it.”

I nudged his nose with mine.

“You are such a romantic, my dear.”

“And you are a very pretty centipede,” he grinned, removing the hand that I had placed on his bottom and resting it on his waist.

“I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

He kissed the top of my head and I was determined to start something, but unfortunately I was betrayed by a humongous yawn.

“Time for bed,” he said, and my protests were fruitless.

I closed my eyes for a moment and when I reopened them, he’d returned from the bathroom and was undressing.

“Take everything off,” I mumbled.

“I’ll keep my socks on,” he joked.

He lay down next to me and I snuggled into him.

“Cheat,” I muttered, as I felt cotton instead of bare skin.

 

 

The smell of coffee awakened me, together with a feminine voice complaining about the price of artichokes.

“They say it’s because of the rain,” she was saying, “It’s too much or not enough. You’d imagine with all this technology they’d get it right, but no, they are only making it worse.”

Oliver was gone and his side of the bed was cold. The alarm clock said 9:18 and I was supposed to be at Saint Cecilia by midday. Two free hours, and my boyfriend wasn’t there. I was tempted to take matters into my own hands, but I didn’t want to risk meeting Amalia in those dubious circumstances.

I grabbed Oliver’s pyjamas jacket and padded to the bathroom. When I came out, showered and scrubbed, I nearly collided with a robust elderly woman.

She eyed me up and down and beamed.

“You are a baby,” she said, “Kurt said you are from up north.”

“Yes, but I much prefer it here,” I replied, “The weather, the food, the landscape, the art,” I hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick, but her beatific expression reassured me.

“All roads lead to Rome,” she declaimed, proudly, “And why not since it was us that invented them?”

I was saved by Rico’s intervention.

“Elio, is that you?” he called, from behind the open door of his bedroom.

“Go see your friend,” Amalia said, “I’ll get your breakfast ready. You are not eating cereals are you?”

Evidently cereals were as bad a faux-pas as preferring Milan to Rome.

“I usually have bread and Nutella and a cup of coffee with milk.”

My reply seemed to satisfy her; I drew a deep breath and entered Rico’s room.

 

“You look better,” I said.

He was less pale and there were no dark circles around his eyes.

“I am not coughing as much,” he replied, “I was thinking that maybe we could go for a walk later today. Maybe go to a bar and get a drink.”

I didn’t want to say no, but I was hoping to spend the evening at home, making sure Oliver wasn’t freaking out about getting tested.

“Could we do some other night? I have an appointment tomorrow early in the morning and-”

He stared at me and his eyes filled with tears.

“You are not sick, are you?” he asked.

“No, that’s not it at all,” I half-lied, and gathered him in my arms.

He was fragile and soft as a new-born baby.

“Have you seen Kurt this morning?” I asked.

Rico rubbed his eyes and blew his nose on a vanilla-scented Kleenex.

“Yes, he came in to see me before he went to the gym,” he replied, “He likes to go bright and early, sometimes. At first, I used to believe that he went there to cruise.”

“Why, is that a gay gym?”

Rico laughed.

“No, you sausage, but it’s got a sauna and you know what happens in those.”

“Have you been there?”

“Only once, but nothing to shout about,” he said. “I got a hand-job from an older guy. He was not my type, but he knew what he was doing.”

“And Kurt, what did he do?”

Rico scratched his head and looked as though he was trying to recall.

“I might be mistaken, but I think that he watched us and jerked off.”

I bit my lips and the inside of my cheek, but I could not refrain from blushing.

“God, you are so easy!” he screeched. “Kurt was in the gym, on the treadmill probably. He never set foot in the sauna, as far as I know. And now he doesn’t need it anyway.”

“Did he tell you about us?”

“He said you were coming to stay and I couldn’t be happier.”

I heard the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.

“Amalia is calling you to breakfast,” he said.

I left him there, promising to return after I’d eaten.

 

When I entered the kitchen, it wasn’t Amalia that was waiting for me, but Oliver. He must have showered at the gym, because his hair was wet and he smelled of soap.

“First night in my boyfriend’s apartment and I woke up alone,” I grumbled. “Don’t make it a habit.”

He pulled me to him and kissed me. His tongue made me forget all my objections.

“You could come with me,” he murmured.

“That’s what I was counting on doing,” I said, “And I couldn’t take care of it on my own in case Amalia burst in unannounced.”

“Poor Bambi,” he cooed, tousling my hair. “All worked up and nowhere to go.”

“Fuck you,” I hissed, palming his crotch. He was wearing sweatpants and a pair of very tight briefs, by the feel of it.

“Amalia’s gone to do the shopping,” he murmured in my ear, “How long have you got?”

“Long enough to do this,” I replied, pulling pants and underwear down and freeing his dick.

“You shouldn’t force it inside those briefs,” I panted, as I started to stroke him, “It’s bad for the circulation.”

Oliver didn’t reply; he was trying to rid me of my shorts and to stay upright.

“I don’t want it to bounce about while I am exercising,” he croaked.

“No, you are right, that would be distracting,” I agreed, biting back a moan as he fisted my cock.

That was the last of our conversation, which after that was reduced to grunts, pleas and obscenities.

 

Amalia returned and found us sitting at the kitchen table and drinking the last of the coffee.

“I got some more eggs and those beef sausages you like,” she said to Kurt, “And frozen pizza, although I have no idea why you’d eat that rubbish. Anyway, not my place to judge,” she added, obviously believing the contrary.

She went to check on Rico and said she would return in the afternoon. Before she left, she took me aside and asked me to look after the boy, because he needed it.

“He may be as big as a Centurion,” she said, “But he’s all soft in the middle, like those mint humbugs.”

I wondered if anyone had ever compared Oliver to a soft mint, but I knew she had a point.

“I’ll come to pick you up at four then,” he said, later, when I kissed him goodbye.

“You don’t need to,” I said, “I’ll be home by five. We could have dinner on the balcony.”

Home, I thought. Yes, that’s where I was.

 


	28. Zero Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go to get tested and Elio has a mini crisis of his own...
> 
> Elio's POV.
> 
> Please be gentle with Elio. He likes what he likes and he REALLY wants what he likes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until 1988, the only HIV testing was the so-called first generation test, which wasn't exactly reliable...

At first, when I was awakened by the sound of retching, I thought of Rico; when I opened my eyes, I saw that Oliver wasn’t in bed.

I hurried to the bathroom and found him there, kneeling in front of the toilet, with his head in the bowl.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, walking up to him.

We’d had a light dinner of tuna salad and roasted potatoes. The fish was a famous brand and everything fresh had been washed before cooking. With a severely ill person in the house, Oliver was extremely careful about hygiene and expiry dates.

He shook his head.

“Nerves,” he replied, giving me a weak smile.

Just then he winced and was sick again.

I helped as much as I could, caressing his back and holding his head; his skin was cool and clammy, so I went back to the bedroom to fetch a blanket, which I wrapped around his shoulders.

When the crisis was over, he couldn’t get back on his feet.

“Sorry,” he mouthed, and I refused to dwell on the past, all the times when he had faced all of this alone. I kissed his nape and hugged him from behind.

“I am sorry that I wasn’t here with you,” I replied.

“It’s disgusting,” he grimaced.

I told him that I wasn’t squeamish, that he could always count on me and that nothing about him would ever disgust me. I said that while wiping his lips and chin with a wet towel. He wished to brush his teeth, so I helped him up. He wobbled and had to lean against the sink, but he got through his ablutions without losing his balance.

“I could run you a bath,” I suggested, “The eucalyptus oil will settle your stomach.”

He didn’t reply, but I could tell by his expression that he liked the idea.

The tub was huge and would take time to fill up, so I went to the piano room to retrieve one the folding chairs. I set it down close to the open window.

“I’m not going to sit in the bathroom,” he protested, “It’s weird.”

“You sit on the toilet all the time,” I argued, “You even read books while you do your business.”

Oliver scowled. “That was unnecessary.”

“And so was your objection,” I said, “Sit on that chair or I’ll make you.”

“Your bedside manner is not ideal,” he replied, as he obeyed my order.

“I’d sit in your lap but I don’t want to put pressure on your abdomen.”

I poured a generous amount of oil in the water and inhaled it pungent scent.

“I know it’s silly,” he said, “Because it’s only the test and nothing will happen until we get the result.”

I was perched on the rim of the tub, caressing the foam with my fingertips.

“Nothing’s silly if it terrifies you,” I replied, “You have every right to be scared.”

“I didn’t think I was,” he sighed. “I wasn’t lying to you all through the evening; I genuinely felt alright.”

“Nights are always worse, because when you close your eyes, you are alone.”

He bit his lips. “Sleep is a bit like death,” he mocked, “Trite and unoriginal.”

“Maybe, but also true,” I concluded.

 

I was rubbing Oliver’s shoulders when he finally spoke again.

“I wonder why people never sit inside a bathroom,” he said.

“Amalia would put you right, if she were here.”

He sniggered, “How so?”

“The Ancient Romans invented the art of communal bathing, the _thermae_. While your civilisation wasn’t even a twinkle in Columbus’s eye, mine was bringing sanitation to the masses.”

He pinched my leg, which was bracketing his. “Presumptuous ass,” he said, “Don’t forget that you are half American.”

I wagged my index finger at him in reprimand.

“Only a quarter, because dad is half Italian,” I explained.

“I thought he was from Boston.”

I laughed, “Boston and a myriad other places, but his mother’s name was Ada and she was born and bred in Cremona.”

Oliver relaxed in my arms and I dropped the sponge into the water.

“Where did she meet your grandfather?”

“You’ll never guess,” I replied, pressing my smiling lips to his neck.

He was silent for a moment before barking with laughter.

“You must be kidding me.”

“You can ask dad if you don’t believe me,” I said, “Her father invited this young academic to stay for the summer and _things_ happened; things that really matter. Maybe it skips a generation.”

He found my hand underwater and linked our fingers together.

“I didn’t stand a chance,” he murmured, “Against the Perlman spell.”

“You make it sound like one of Poe’s dark tales.

“The ghosts of past romances,” he said.

“It would make for a great title,” I remarked, “There’s your third novel, problem solved.”

He brought our conjoined hands to his lips and kissed my knuckles.

“Did you ever think about your grandparents when your father started inviting summer guests?” he asked.

“When I was fifteen, my room went to a young man named Maynard. He flirted with me but I didn’t realise at the time. When I saw your photo attached to the application, I chose you. Maybe I’d already fallen for you, just a little.”

“How old was this Maynard?” 

“Twenty-two, I think, or thereabouts. I lent him my pens and my books, sometimes. I didn’t like him if that’s what you were really asking.”

My free hand went to his groin and found what it was searching for.

“Does that excite you?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said, parting his thighs, “You at fifteen, wondering what this man wanted from you. I put myself in his shoes.”

“He had small feet.”

I stroked him slowly, murmuring in his ear. He came with a muffled cry, while I sucked on his neck.

“Best cure for any illness,” Oliver said later, as we showered.

“Sex in the bath?”

“You.”

We kissed and held each other under the spray.

 

 

We left earlier than needed to avoid the traffic and arrived at Villa Giulia thirty minutes before our appointment.

Oliver had been quiet since he woke up. Even Amalia had noticed his mood and had left us alone. We’d had coffee and fresh fruit, since there was no need to fast before the blood test. I had brought Rico his breakfast and he’d not asked questions but I was sure that he knew what was going on. Oliver had insisted we didn’t tell him until we got the results and I had agreed.

The doctor’s assistant recognised me, but she ignored me the moment she set eyes on Oliver. He smiled at her and she blushed.

“Doctor Vergani is not in yet,” she said, “Please have a seat and fill in these forms while you wait.”

She handed us the sheets of paper and two pens, but her eyes never left my boyfriend’s face. I cleared my throat twice and she got the message. A buzzer on her desk went off and she left the room.

“The bloody cheek,” I hissed, and Oliver chuckled.

“My rough American charm,” he quipped, “Works even in Ancient Rome.”

“Shut up and write,” I said, making him giggle even more.

In fact I was glad of the distraction, which had calmed Oliver’s nerves.

 

Doctor Vergani came in and Oliver introduced himself as Kurt.

She gazed at him for a moment then led us towards her office.

“Mr Perlman told me a bit about you two the other day,” she said, once we were all seated. “But I’d like to hear the story from you.”

“The story?” asked Kurt. His hands were in his lap but they were nervous.

“Tell me about your previous tests and what happened since then.”

Kurt cast me a quick glance and I nodded.

He gave her a resume of his story from that night at Fire Island: the unprotected sex, the dead partner, Doctor Goldberg, the three tests and his subsequent celibacy.

“I know Goldberg,” she said, “A good man, but at the time his resources were limited. We are better equipped now.”

“Is that so?”

She didn’t seem offended by his sarcastic tone.

“Not as well as we might and will be, but certainly not as in the dark as we were two years ago,” she replied. “For instance, we know that false positives are linked to pre-existing conditions such as infections, pregnancy or immune system issues. From what you told me, you were under a lot of stress at the time, your eating and sleeping patterns were sketchy and you had lost a lot of weight.”

“I was scared of dying,” he said, dryly.

“Understandably,” she commented, “And that often creates a cath-22 situation. But the Western blot was negative and that, along with your good health, is extremely encouraging. I am sure Goldberg explained why the blot is a more accurate assay.”

“He said something about algorithms.”

She smiled.

“Let’s just say that’s more conclusive because it’s less sensitive. The high sensitivity of the ELISA means a higher percentage of false positives. But that’s all medical jargon. What I will say is that now we have more aware of the defects of our tests and have found some means of perfecting them.”

She turned her attention to me.

“In your case, since you have been sexually active and you’ve not been tested for a while, I advise another batch of tests in three months.”

“Does that mean that we won’t be in the clear until then?”

I had not thought about that.

“Yes, that’s right,” she confirmed.

“But I have been very careful,” I said, “During that tine I have only had sex with women, using protection.”

She asked if she could enquire further in front of Kurt and I said yes.

“Have you performed oral sex on these women?”

My face was on fire when I replied, “Yes, a few times.”

“The risk is minimal, as far as we know, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I did not warn you. If you had the sort of intercourse less than twelve weeks ago, you will need to get tested again.”

I wanted to swear at my predilection for oral sex, which would preclude me from getting what I needed from Oliver for a very long time: catch-22 indeed.

Doctor Vergani left us alone to discuss what had just transpired.

“Silvia is healthy,” I blurted out, “She’d never have sex without a condom. Once I forgot and she made me go out to the _Farmacia_ to buy some.”

Oliver squeezed my hand.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to wait for another three fucking months,” I said.

“Not much fucking will happen,” he joked and I glared at him. “And anyway, you are assuming I will be okay, which is not what the doctor said.”

“I heard what she said,” I countered, “Especially that part about waiting until summer to get that dick inside of me.”

He put his hand on my mouth, “Shush,” he said, smiling, “I thought you were supposed to hold my hand and keep me grounded.”

I looked him in the eye. “You don’t seem very upset,” I said.

Of course, I was being an idiot. He’d been tested positive twice so he must have heard it all before.

“I have been without you for years,” he said, wrapping me in his arms. “I can wait another few weeks and so can you.”

“I’m not sure about that,” I muttered.

And then an idea came to me which instantly cheered me up.

“If you are fine, I should be allowed to suck you off.”

Oliver combed his fingers through my hair.

“We’ll see about that,” he replied.

“We can ask the doctor.”

There was a noise behind us and a perfunctory cough.

“Ask me what?” Doctor Vergani said.

Oliver, or rather Kurt, threw me a warning glance, but I ignored it.

“We talked about oral intercourse,” I started, “If we are both negative and he doesn’t need to take a second test, does that mean that, well, I was wondering what is permitted.”

She understood where I was going.

“If the receiver is negative, he runs no risks of infection from the giver unless the latter had cuts or sores on his mouth or lips. The reverse is, of course, more problematic, as I am sure you realise.”

We told her that we were ready and she took us through to the room where the nurses would draw our blood samples.

The results would be ready within four days, said Doctor Vergani, after we were done. We shook her hand and she assured us that we’d receive a phone call as soon as the samples were out of the lab.

We walked out through the assistant’s office and the woman’s eyes followed Oliver, as though magnetised by him.

I took him by the hand and he let me.


	29. Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never take your eyes off the ball... (not that sort of ball)..
> 
>  
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you ever go to Lazio, maybe you may want to visit Ronciglione. It's a lovely medieval burg located on what used to be the crater of a volcano. The event I mention is amazing, the stuff of fairy tales and legends.

 

The next days passed faster than I’d imagined: Oliver was busy because of a deadline for the translation of a short story that was going to be published on The New Yorker, while I was taking advantage of his piano to practise the piece I was writing. I also spent time with Rico, and even took him out one evening in order to give Oliver some peace and quiet. I’d borrowed Oliver’s car and we’d driven to the Gianicolo, where we’d drunk beer and watched a makeshift Punch & Judy show. Rico’s laugh was childlike and unabashed: the kids had smiled up at him as though he were one of them.

I found it increasingly harder to call my boyfriend by another name and was certain that sooner or later I’d get mixed up.

Sabino was endlessly teasing me because of my spaced-out behaviour which he attributed to an oversupply of dick. I didn’t want to say a word about the test - and to his credit he didn't ask - but I wished I could have explained the bitter irony of my current situation.

Manu took me to the cinema on the Friday afternoon: we went to see Losey’s _Accident_ , the last film of the Pasquino’s Bogarde retrospective.

“How’s Oliver?” she asked, as we sipped our drinks outside the bar on the piazza.

I couldn’t and wouldn’t lie to her.

“We got tested on Wednesday,” I replied, “At Villa Giulia. We should get the results on Sunday.”

She whistled. “That’s serious. Are you scared?”

“We have no reason to be,” I said. “It’s the waiting that gets to you. If we could know straight away, it wouldn’t be as daunting.”

“But in two days you will find out that you’re okay and that will be it,” she said, with a warm smile.

I explained why that wouldn’t be the case and she patted my hand.

“Three months are nothing. Besides, it’s not like you’re in different countries.”

“Or in different buildings,” I winked.

Her eyes glimmered with excitement and she urged me to tell her everything, which I kind of did, leaving out a number of details.

“I’d love to see your new place,” she said afterwards.

I had been thinking of inviting friends over, but I’d not discussed it with Oliver.

“I’ll call you and we’ll arrange something,” I replied.

That evening she had dinner plans, so I decided to collect some more of my things from my apartment. Before that, there was somewhere else I needed to be.

 

Villa Sciarra was one of my favourite parks: only the locals knew of it and it was sparsely attended. One of its more interesting features was the back entrance through a narrow passage that was unknown to most. From the outside, the alley looked as though it belonged to the house it flanked. In reality, it was a public path and it allowed access to the park after closing hours.

I intended to take Oliver there for our celebration night, but I wanted to make sure that the secret passage was still there. I climbed up Via Dandolo wishing I’d taken the bus and was out of breath when I reached the top. I was happy to find out that my plans were not to be thwarted and was on my way downhill when I heard someone calling me. I turned around and saw a man trying to catch up with me.

It was Marco, the one who’d compared a chair to a flamingo during that fateful party chez Nash.

I waited for him and when he reached me, we exchanged a manly hug.

“You going anywhere in particular?” he asked.

“To my place,” I said. “And you?”

“Nash invited a few of us for drinks. I thought you’d be there too.”

“I was away,” I explained, “Perhaps he left a message on my answering machine.”

“Why don’t you come anyway?”

I demurred and he assumed it was because I hadn’t anything to bring to Nash.

“I have two bottles of wine,” he said, “Couldn’t decide between white and red.”

“Should have picked rosé,” I joked.

He scrunched his nose. “That stuff is only good for the French,” he said.

“For me then, since I am partly French.”

“Oops, sorry,” he grinned, “Just ignore me. I am in a bad mood because my girlfriend dumped me.”

“Was that the German girl I met at the party?”

“Ulrike, yes,” he replied. “Technically she didn’t leave me, but she’s going back home. She was here on a student exchange programme.”

“She might come back,” I suggested.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said, “She’s going to live in Berlin. She wants to be there when the wall comes down.”

“Sounds interesting, but I suppose you don’t want to join her?”

He opened his arms wide and gazed around. “And leave all this? Rome is the most beautiful city in the world and I love it with all my heart.”

“More than Ulrike, I guess.”

“She’s great, but Rome is the only home for me.”

Mine was Oliver and I was his, I thought, but it wasn’t a conclusion I wished to share with anybody else. He seemed to partly guess my train of thought.

“Did you manage to find Kurt in the end?”

“Yes, I did,” I replied, “Nash gave me Kurt’s address.” I decided it was best to cut a long story short. “We have moved in together.”

Marco was silent for a moment.

“I met him two years ago, but he left and went back to the States.”

“And he didn’t tell you he’d returned to Italy?”

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“If he chose Rome, he can’t be that bad,” he declared.

He sounded like Amalia.

“He’s not bad at all,” I argued, “In fact, he’s the best person I know.”

Marco chuckled, “That’s what I deserve for criticising the French.”

“He’s not a great fan either,” I said, remembering Oliver’s sarcasm at the tale of the knight who didn’t know whether he should speak or die.

“I like him already.”

 

Nash was talking to a curvy read-head when we arrived. One of his guests let us in and was about to introduce himself, when the host spotted me.

“Elio,” he shouted, to catch my attention. He made his excuses to the girl and strode up to me. Marco had been spirited away by a pale brunette with coral-red lips whose name eluded me.

“Where have you disappeared?” my friend asked. “I called you two days ago and left dozens of messages. I was worried.”

We weren’t close enough to warrant this sort of behaviour.

“I’m not under surveillance, am I?” I joked.

He rolled his eyes and took me aside.

“It’s because of Kurt,” he whispered, “I haven’t heard from you since I gave you his address.”

“Everything’s okay,” I said, “I was right: he was an old friend of mine.”

“And you’d forgotten you knew someone named Kurt? It’s a rather unusual name.”

“His name’s Oliver,” I confessed. “Kurt is a kind of stage name.”

Nash stared at me and scratched his bald head.

“Look,” he started before glancing left and right to make sure no one was listening. “You know that I write articles about Americans in Rome,” I nodded and he went on, “I have been asked to do a piece on the drug scene. Not a Pulitzer story, only a bit of _colore locale_ , you see? I went to Magliana first but it was too depressing so I opted for Testaccio. I was warned to avoid week-ends: too crowded.”

I felt a trickle of sweat travel down between my shoulder-blades.

“Last Tuesday I was going to meet a source behind the market, but when he arrived he was close to hysterical. He told me there was a rumour that the _Polizia_ were going to raid the area. A major _retata_ , no big shots but loads of small fry: dealers, pimps, rent-boys, habitual customers. Good news for my article, but not so much for my parties, I thought, if I lost my supplier. And then I remembered about you and Kurt.”

“I haven’t heard anything about a raid,” I said, with a tremor in my voice.

“That’s because it hasn’t happened yet,” he replied, “It could be tonight, tomorrow or next week.”

Oliver told me he was going out for work tonight, but perhaps he hadn’t yet left.

“I have to call him,” I said.

“Better use the phone in my bedroom,” he suggested.

He followed me there and handed me a glass of wine before leaving, advising me to lock the door. I did as told then raised the handset with shaky hands and dialled Oliver’s number.

“Pronto?” said Rico.

“It’s Elio,” I answered, clearing my throat. “Is Kurt there?”

“He left half an hour ago,” he said, “He asked me to tell you that he was going to be back before midnight. Amalia wanted to stay but I am fine; if you are having fun, have some for me too.”

There was no way I could stay at the party after what had just transpired.

I drained the wine in one gulp and went in search of Nash.

“You okay?” someone asked. It was Marco, who was still chatting with the dark-haired girl.

“I have to go,” I replied, “Something came up.”

Thankfully, I was saved from having to explain by Nash, who took me by the arm and led me out on the Juliet balcony. It was narrow and I had the distinct sensation that it wobbled the moment we stepped on it.

“Any news?” he asked.

“He wasn’t there,” I replied, “I can’t stay here.”

“I’d come with you, if I could. Please call me if anything happens.”

“For your story’s sake?”

He smiled crookedly. “That too, but I meant it as a friend.”

“You won’t hear the bell in this din.”

Nash sighed. “I wouldn’t be a decent journalist if I hadn’t mastered the ability to prick up my ears when it’s required. Here’s my number,” he slid a card into the pocket of my shirt. “In case you are in a public phone box and can’t look it up.”

It seemed all too cloak and dagger, but I thanked him and left.

 

I left my bike in Trastevere and took a train instead. Thirty minutes later, I was unlocking the door to our apartment and I was greeted by Rico’s surprised countenance.

“Why are you back?” he asked, “Is Kurt with you?”

It was then that the dam broke.

“Sit down,” I said, and helped him on to the couch. “I need a smoke.”

He gazed at my Lido with envy.

“Just the one puff,” I intimated, passing him the cigarette. He inhaled as though he was getting stoned and exhaled with a moan of pure pleasure.

“I have to tell you something, because I simply can’t keep this charade up any longer,” I said, as soon as the Lido was back between my fingers, “Kurt’s real name is Oliver. It’s not my story to tell, but all you need to know is that he’s a good man gone slightly wrong. If he gets into serious trouble I’ll stand by him, but this game has lasted long enough.”

Rico was staring at me with wide, worried eyes.

“Is he going away?” he enquired.

I shuddered, “I bloody hope not,” I exclaimed, “Did he say where he was going?”

He shook his head.

“Anything at all?”  Another head-shake.

I didn’t know what I should do: I didn’t want to stay, but if I went and looked for him, where could I go? Besides, I didn’t have a car and public transport wasn’t an option on a Friday night.

Oliver could be almost anywhere and the fact that I had no idea where my boyfriend was filled me with anger. I didn’t need to know his every move, but the secrecy of his “job” had ceased to attract me.

“I need a car,” I said.

“Amalia has one,” Rico replied, unexpectedly. “It’s a horrible beige 2CV and she only drives it once a year to Ronciglione and back, but it’s better than nothing.”

“But will she lend it to me... where?”

“There’s a famous event in August, the _processione_ of San Bartolomeo, the patron saint of the burg. And yes, she will. Just let me  take another drag and I’ll phone her.”

“Blackmailer,” I complained, but I let him smoke what was left of the cigarette.


	30. Luxuria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the angst...
> 
> *Warning for violence and attempted rape*
> 
> Nothing too graphic but please proceed with care...
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names of the streets are real, the night clubs do not exist (as far as I know). The ex mattatoio (slaughterhouse) really hosts a music school since the 1970s.

Rico had highlighted on the map all the places where he thought I should go.

The ex-Slaughterhouse in Piazza Giustiniani was known to me because it hosted a music school, but it was an enormous building and most of it was empty or occupied by squatters. Other joints I’d only heard about, such as La Serpe Rossa and The Luxuria; the former in Via di Monte Testaccio and the latter in Via Volta, not far from the Market.

Amalia had lent me the car without asking too many questions. I have to go look for Kurt, I told her, and it had been enough for her. As a former nurse, she was probably used to recognise an emergency when she saw one.

I drove like a maniac, counting on the _vigili_ to have better things to do on a Friday night than stopping a 2CV going at 90 kmph; I hoped the car would survive the ordeal, considering the rattling noise it was emitting and the way it bounced up and down, like a canoe on a stormy sea.

When I finally got there, I went straight to the Slaughterhouse but could see no traces of the dreaded _Polizia_.  I explored the area for a while, but soon realised how stupid I had been. If they were to raid the _rione_ , they wouldn’t have descended on it like locusts, but would have approached it by stealth, using unmarked cars and plain-clothes officers. They surely had undercover agents posing as addicts or as clients. I shivered thinking that one of them might have befriended Oliver and maybe would be the one to arrest him.

I had told Rico about the incident Kurt had witnessed in which a man had been stabbed and he suggested it might have been at La Serpe Rossa.

I parked the car opposite its entrance, which consisted of a red door with a yellow coiled snake painted on its upper portion. Outside, a handful of men were smoking or drinking from beer bottles, talking to each other and laughing. They seemed friendly and harmless, so I decided to have a look inside the bar.

As soon as I got closer to them, that first impression dissipated to give way to alarm. I was wearing a jacket with a hood and my head was covered, which one of the men did not approve of.

“What are you hiding under that?” he said, pointing his bottle at me.

I ignored him and was returning to the car, but he barred the way. He was as tall as me but with a wide chest and a thick neck. He stared at me with his round black eyes and waited. I pulled the hood down, shook my curls and returned his gaze.

“Okay,” he relented, “We like to see what goes in and what comes out, if you know what I mean.”

“I was only looking for a friend of mine,” I said, as firmly as I could, “His name’s Kurt.”

The man’s expression underwent a radical change.

“Enzo’s American pal?” he exclaimed and to his friends, “See? I told you that he wasn’t a monk. This is Kurt’s boyfriend.”

I would have blushed if I’d had any blood to spare.

The other men commented on the bit of news they’d just been imparted: the gist of their reactions was that they’d always known Kurt was gay and that he had a peculiar taste in partners. One of them, a muscled boy with a large nose, scrutinised me with distaste and spat on the sidewalk.

“Lulu is jealous,” said the first man, whose nickname was Er Tozzo, “He always believed he stood a chance with Kurt because once they got drunk together.”

“When was that?” I enquired.

“Last November,” Tozzo said, “What was the occasion?”

“He said he’d seen someone he hadn’t met in a long time,” Lulu muttered, his eyes fixed to the ground.

“The shock wasn’t enough to get you laid,” a third man chimed in. They all laughed, except for Lulu and me.

I was afraid the chummy atmosphere might sour at any moment.

“Have you seen him tonight?” I asked, “I was told there might be a raid in the _Rione_.”

They all turned towards me, silent as the grave, before erupting in a cacophony worthy of Steve Reich.

No, Kurt hadn’t been there; who told me about the raid; why would they bother with La Serpe Rossa when the Luxuria was overflowing with prostitutes and pushers; were my sources reliable: I told them I’d had it from a journalist I couldn’t name and that was it.

They left me in a hurry and went inside to impart the news, while I wondered whether I should walk or drive to the Luxuria. I opted for taking the car, in case I had to make a fast getaway.

I found a parking spot five minutes away and while I paced in the direction of the night club, I reflected on what I’d discovered: Oliver had seen me months ago and he’d been so depressed that he got shitfaced in the company of a man who fancied him. What if he’d lost control and something had happened, I wondered. But deep in my heart I knew that was impossible: Oliver was unable to let go even with me, and his desire for me was undeniable. Still, this was another reason for him to ditch this world, since this sort of men would not think twice about rape and torture, if that’s what it took to get what they wanted.

 

The Luxuria was heaving with loud music, chatter and the clinking of bottles and glasses. The strobe lighting blinded me and it took me a moment to realise that I had entered from a fire exit. The DJ was playing King’s Alone Without You and the dance floor was tightly packed with bodies; I’d have loved to be one of them, and if only I could have found Oliver, I might have convinced him to dance with me. The thought of grinding against a shirtless, sweaty Oliver made me lose focus and I jumped when I heard the voice whispering hotly in my ear.

“How much?” the man said.

The surprise left me speechless. I turned to look at him: a man in his forties, with dyed blond hair and two deep creases across his forehead. Not bad looking, but with dilated pupils and breath stinking of alcohol.

“I’m not here for that,” I answered, “I’m a student.”

Of all the replies I could have come up with.

He slid a hand down the back pocket of his jeans and dug out a pill.

“A little present,” he said, holding it between thumb and forefinger, “Students deserve to have fun too.”

“I don’t do drugs.”

He shook his head and laughed.

“But this isn’t a drug,” he replied, “It’s for the tension. You are too tense,” he went on, touching my shoulder. I flinched and he grabbed me by the neck. It wasn’t a violent gesture but possessive, as though he had the right to do that. No one there would have paid attention if I screamed and they certainly wouldn’t have noticed if the man forced me to go with him. A second later, I was running away. I heard footsteps behind me and kept going until I reached the Market. I’d been too terrified to think about the car and ended up going in the opposite direction.

I hid behind one of the stalls and tried to discern the signs of my follower’s presence above the drumming of my heart: there was nothing, but the distant roar of motorbikes and the habitual noises of a crowded city on a Friday evening.

I waited for a while, panting and shaking, until I thought it was alright to come out. My priority was to go back to the 2CV then I would decide on my next move. I was in Via Manuzio and there were enough people around to make me feel safe. I stood under a street light and caught my breath. I was turning the corner into Via Franklin when he came up behind me.

“You are making me work for it,” he sneered, and before I could get away again, he grabbed me by the hair and pushed me against a wall. That stretch of road was half-deserted and the building I was pressed against could be described as a ruin.

He saw me glance at it and chuckled.

“There was a fire a month ago,” he said, trailing a hand down my stomach, “A party gone wild. Boys like you,” his fingers were on the zip of my trousers. “Fucking like rabbits and coked up to their eyeballs.”

“Let me go,” I said. “My boyfriend is looking for me. He won’t like what you are doing and is twice as big as you.”

He whistled.

“Better get on with it then,” he leered and smashed his lips on mine. I slapped him and he slapped me back, hard. We fought for a bit until he punched me on cheekbone and my nose started to bleed. Fearing that I would pass out, I summoned what remained of my strength and kneed him in the balls. He swore at me and I couldn’t see where I was going because tears were streaming from my eyes. The car was a distant mirage and I collided against something made of glass: it was a phone box. While I frantically searched for coins, I found the card with Nash’s number. At the third attempt I got it right; when it started to ring, I slumped down to the floor so that no one could see me from outside and planted my feet flat against the doors.  

“Pronto?” my friend’s voice said. I could have kissed him.

“Please come, please,” I croaked, “My fucking nose is bleeding.”

“Elio, where are you?”

“A phone box near Via Manuzio,” I replied. “I kicked him in the nuts.”

“Don’t move,” Nash ordered, “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Oddly, I believed him. If anyone could go from Trastevere to Testaccio in such a short time, that would be Nash. I removed my sweater and used it to staunch the blood. Moments later there was a loud bang on the glass. It was too early wasn’t it?

I was prepared for another fight when I heard my name being called.

It was Oliver.

 

I must have looked a fright, because he didn’t even try to pull me out of the phone box. He kneeled down in front of me, barely fitting in between the open doors, and held my face in his hands.

“Where is it, what, are you hurt?” he asked, while I tried to throw my arms around his neck.

“Just my nose and my left eye,” I replied, as he delicately prodded my face. “You are very beautiful, you know?”

He was, albeit a bit fuzzy around the edges. My nose had stopped bleeding and I was slightly light-headed.

“I came here to find you, but you found me,” I said, feeling very clever.

He swore and rubbed his face which became streaked with red.

“Oliver, what is it?” I whispered.

“Nothing, we have to go,” he replied, “I’ll have to carry you to the car.”

“Amalia’s  2CV is parked in Via Volta,” I said.

“What, never mind, I’ll come and collect it tomorrow.”

I let go of him.

“No, I promised I would return it tonight.”

“Elio,” he started, but I interrupted him, “I gave her my word.”

“I don’t care about the fucking car,” he shouted, and my eyes filled with tears.

The deafening noise of a motorbike cut through our argument.

“And what are you doing here?” Oliver screamed at Nash.

“Elio rang me,” my friend explained, “I’m glad you got here first. Is there anything I can do?”

“Get my car,” Oliver said, handing him the keys, “It’s a red Ford Escort and it’s parked outside Felice. You know where it is?”

Nash replied that he did and strode away.

“Did they hit you on the head?” Oliver asked.

“He punched me, once, I think, but my head is fine.”

As I said that, everything around me started to whirl and tilt then it went dark.

 

At the Regina Margherita hospital, the doctor who examined me gazed at Oliver with suspicion.

I insisted that I’d had a fight with a drunken thug, but it was clear that he believed Oliver was the guilty party.  No one could have blamed him, considering the blood on my boyfriend’s clothes, hands and face.

I was discharged later that night with a box of painkillers, a tube of cauterising ointment for my nose and a pack of ice for the swelling under my eye.

Nash had found Amalia’s car and parked it in the piazza outside his apartment. It was safer there, he said, and he would post the keys into my letterbox at Vicolo della Frusta.

 

Oliver was angry, but he stayed silent during the entire journey back to our apartment. I dozed off midway and awakened when the garage door shut behind us.

“I hate myself,” he whispered, “I wish you’d never met me.”


	31. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver is a bit of a dick and Elio is... Elio
> 
> Elio's POV

“What did you just say?” I asked, wondering if I’d dreamt it, but Oliver replied that we should talk tomorrow; I needed to rest, he said, and to avoid all sources of anger and anxiety.

“That’s what the doctor ordered,” he explained, “to prevent another nosebleed.”

Very convenient, I thought, but was too woozy to protest.

He carried me to the elevator and only put me down when I warned him that he was making me very nervous.

The drowsiness and the shock were wearing off and were being replaced by pure wrath, doctor’s advice be damned.

Oliver barely had time to unlock the front door when Rico flung it open. He took one look at us and gasped, before starting to swear in the local slang.

“What happened?” he asked, following us into the living room. Oliver deposited me on the couch and suggested Rico went back to bed.

“I don’t think so,” the latter replied, “Not until you’ve told me why you look like two toreadors after a bullfight.”

I was observing their exchanges with trepidation, afraid that Oliver would break down in front of his friend and blame himself for what had happened. I wanted to straighten things out, but not in Rico’s presence.

“Elio was attacked,” Oliver said, “I wonder who told him where to look for me.”

Rico’s eyes filled with terror.

“I only mentioned, I didn’t think,” he stuttered.

That was the proverbial last straw.

“You don’t get to accuse _him_ and make _him_ feel guilty,” I hissed, “I was trying to save your sorry ass and he was being a friend to both of us. Before tonight, he didn’t even know you real name.”

Oliver glared at me and I scowled back. My bruise throbbed and my left eye was filmy but I stared daggers at him until he was forced to lower his gaze.

“I promise that I’m fine,” I said to Rico, “And that I will tell you everything tomorrow.”

He sat down next to me and stroked my hair. “Was it my fault?” he murmured, and I held his hand and assured him that it was nothing of the sort. He kissed my forehead and left without addressing Oliver, who had gone out on the balcony to smoke a cigarette. It was one of the few times in the course of our relationship when I was completely unsure about him: would he become aloof again and forget that we belonged to one other? Would he sever our connection judging that, on balance, he’d been safer and happier before my return? I wasn’t certain that he wouldn’t, but I did not intend to beg or to play damsel in distress. I would speak my mind and he’d have to listen: our future couldn’t be built on anything but absolute honesty.

In the meantime, I needed water for my pills and a wet flannel. I sat up and was getting on my feet when he strode up to me.

Rico had been right about the toreador: Oliver could have been a character out of Hemingway, so manly and rugged and encrusted with my blood. My libido was alive and well, apparently.

“Don’t move,” he admonished me. “Whatever you need, you only have to ask.”

I smirked, “Right,” full of sarcasm.

“Time for your pills,” he said, and went to fetch what was required. I took the cloth from his hands and dabbed my nose with it.

“Lie down,” he insisted, a frown creasing his features, “I’ll take care of it.”

I let him, and his touch was delicate, his concentration like that of a restorer of precious antiques.

“Nash told me about the raid,” I murmured, while he was examining my swollen eye. His warm breath tickled my nose, but I was too close to read his reaction.

“Stupid gossip,” he gritted out, “He should have minded his own business.”

I pushed him away.

“You could have been arrested and gone to jail,” I spat out. “And I would fucking die before I let that happen. I came to find you and some doped up pervert tried to get into my pants, but your conclusion is that Nash should have kept his mouth shut?”

Oliver froze, his hand hovering inches from my cheekbone, like a stuffed appendage.

“It’s not what,” he mumbled, “I was told that, what, no, no, no,” he shook his head and let the flannel drop onto the sofa, as he pulled away from me.

“What is it that you were told?” I asked, licking the last of the blood from the corner of my mouth.

“I bumped into Lulu outside Felice and he told me that he’d met you and that you seemed to be having fun. I asked what kind of fun and he mimicked the sniffing of coke. I said it was impossible and he mentioned the Luxuria and Franz.”

“A man in his forties with dyed blond hair,” I said.

“He’s the coke guy and likes to cause trouble.”

“And fuck boys when they are out of it.”

Oliver was shaking and looked like a horse about to bolt out of its stable.

“Bad mistake,” he whispered, “He’s gonna pay for it.”

“You thought I’d taken the coke?”

He gazed at me as though from a distance.

“No, I thought you’d shrugged him off and that he’d started a fight for the hell of it. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it may be the last.”

With great effort, I clambered on to his lap. I took his face in my hands, fingering the streaks of crimson on his cheeks.

“You won’t go after Franz, you hear me?” I said, holding his gaze. “The Kurt act ends tonight. If you have pending business, wind it down. You cannot do this anymore because I won’t let you.”

He bit his lips and said nothing.

“I don’t care about morality, but I sure as hell care about you. You got away with it for so long, but your luck will run out eventually and then what? You think I’d watch you ruin your life and do nothing?”

“You can walk away,” he murmured, “I would if I were you.”

“Would you really? If I were up to my neck in shit, you’d let me drown in it? Come on, say it!”

I curled one hand around his neck and thumbed at his Adam’s apple; it quivered under the slight pressure. I pressed my lips to his, softly enough that I could whisper, “You filthy liar.” I licked the insult into Oliver’s mouth, sharing the sweetness of my blood. He hesitated to respond but when he did it was with a growl that rolled beneath my fingers. Like the first time in his kitchen, our kitchen, he kissed me like it was the only thing in the universe that mattered to him. He melted against me, the fight and the resentment oozing out of him.

When we parted, his eyes were pure blue and lost.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he said.

I was about to reply that he was my man, the love of my life, my whole world, but then I thought, no, to hell with this romantic bullshit.

“Who cares?” I argued, puliing the hair at his nape, “We’ll find out together, along the way. I’m not too sure who I am either, if that makes you feel any better.”

He chuckled. “Piano virtuoso, child prodigy and supreme pain up my backside, that’s who you are, my dear.”

“I can’t wait to be that pain again,” I countered, squeezing his muscled upper arms.

“I can’t believe you,” he exclaimed, feigning outrage, “Even after what happened, your mind can’t manage to crawl out of the gutter.”

“I like it there,” I husked, dotting his throat with kisses, “It’s nice and warm, and smells of Missoni Uomo and of your spunk.”

“Shameless,” he said, trying not to smile. I suppressed a yawn, but he noticed it and carried me to the bathroom.

 

I woke up in a sweat, surrounded by Oliver.

He was shirtless and his shorts were low on his hips. A tuft of pubic hair pushing out of the waistband and the bulge of his dick were making my mouth water.

I touched my bruise and felt a dull ache. The swelling had subsided but I had slight headache. All in all, I felt strong enough to indulge in some morning glory with my man. Palming his crotch while he was still asleep wasn’t kosher, especially not after the previous night. I nuzzled his chest, blowing on it.

“Elio,” he croaked, “What, are you alright?”

“Hmm”

“Show me.”

Well, since he asked so nicely, I bit down on his nipple and sucked on it.

“God’s sake,” he moaned, “I meant your face, show me your cheek.”

“I am showing you my cheek,” I said, “Here comes more of it,” and grabbed a handful of his engorged cock.

He arched his back and opened his legs and I thought I had won the war. It took him about ten seconds to recover his wits. He pinned me to the mattress, holding me down without hurting me, and examined the state of my injuries.

“You are black and blue, but better than I thought,” he concluded, “The ice did its job. What about your eyes: how many fingers?” he asked, raising three digits.

“I’d start with one,” I replied, “But we can work up to three.”

Oliver knew when he was beaten, so he laughed and gathered me in his arms.

“About what Franz did,” he said, after a while, “What he tried to do, are you, do you need,” he cleared his throat, “Maybe you should talk to somebody.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“A therapist, I meant.”

I pondered his suggestion.

“I am not pretending it wasn’t terrifying because it was,” I said, “But in way, it made me understand what you felt, that night with Kurt at Fire Island. He violated your trust and you nearly paid for it with your life.”

His heart was thrumming in counterpoint to mine.

“I wasn’t as innocent as you were,” he murmured.

“There was a risk and I took it because I had to find you,” I said. “If you go there again, I will come with you.”

He took a deep breath. “Please, let me do it my way, Elio. I don’t want them to know who you are. It’s bad enough that you’ve met Tozzo and his gang, but I can deal with them.”

I pulled away a little in order to look at him.

“Deal with them, how?”

“Not the way you are hinting at,” Oliver replied. “If Kurt ceases to operate, someone will have to take his place.”

I couldn’t imagine any of those thugs step into Kurt’s role: they weren’t half as clever or classy. I kept that consideration to myself, in case Oliver took it the wrong way.

“Do you think that Enzo will throw us out of here?”

“Probably,” he replied, “But I will think of something, don’t worry.”

“I’ll miss this room,” I said, tugging Oliver’s hair. He loved when I did that so I yanked them some more. I felt his dick twitch against my belly and I was ready to resume our morning session when my stomach decided otherwise.

“Ignore it,” I said, but Oliver would not be persuaded.

“I’ll bring you breakfast in bed,” he announced.

“Lovely idea, but I think we should talk to Rico and that you should apologise.”

“Yes, okay,” he said, as he helped me on my feet. I needed to lean against him for support but I was certain I’d feel better after having had something to eat.

Rico was watching a documentary on wildlife, or at least he was pretending to. There was an empty pot of yoghurt on his bedside cabinet and a fresh bottle of lemonade on the floor. He pressed the off switch button on the remote and looked at me.

“What happened to your face?” he asked.

I told him everything aside from the attempted rape. I said that Franz had wanted to sell me coke and had punched me when he found out that I had no money.

To my surprise, Franz wasn’t unknown to Rico.

“Did you forget where I come from?” he said, “I used to go to Luxuria when it was a only a disco. I had my first kiss with a boy in the toilets there. The smell of bleach always takes me back. What is Kurt, I mean Oliver, what’s he going to do?”

“You can ask him yourself,” I said, “and don’t be afraid. You are staying with us, come what may.”


	32. Samarra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio realises something about himself and Oliver gets to know Nash.
> 
> Elio's POV

Rico and Oliver were on the balcony, talking. Oliver was smoking - which is why he’d insisted they went outside - while Rico was enveloped in a thin blanket and stretched out on the lounger. I could hear their voices, but not discern what they were saying.

Sitting at Oliver’s desk, I was supposed to be typing, which I had sworn I wanted to do, despite my boyfriend’s protestations. Everything should continue as before, except for the drugs business, I’d told him.

I gazed at him: his strong lean body, his elegant gestures, the flawless profile of his face and the lines of worry on his forehead; without a warning, tears came to my eyes and I let them spill out. I turned away from them and from the handwritten pages, and I cried. It was a peculiar experience, noiseless and dignified, of which I felt a spectator more than a participant.

Why was I crying - I wondered - as the deluge continued unchecked; for myself and what had nearly happened last night? Maybe; for Oliver and the dismal life he’d led when he believed he’d die alone? That too, surely, but something was eluding me. Death, it was death which kept nudging me like a bored child on a long car journey.  Pay attention, Elio - it whispered like a snake in a fairy tale - you can run but you cannot hide.

When I was a kid, Dad read me from the Talmud the Sukkah about King Solomon and the Angel of Death:  the gist of the story was that we can’t fight destiny and our feet will ultimately carry us to the site of our demise. The parable had made its way into literature, the most famous rendition of it being O’Hara’s Appointment in Samarra.

Oliver had eluded his destiny and come to Rome to be near me, but what if right from the start I had been his Angel of Death? What if his every move had been designed to bring him to this point in time and mine to be the cause of his downfall? I wasn’t his saviour, but the source of his troubles. The more I thought of it, the more it made sense. If he hadn’t met me, maybe he would have stayed with his fiancée.  
I went to the bathroom and inspected my face in the mirror: my cheekbone was violet and my nose and eyes were red and swollen. I had been assaulted and if Franz hadn’t been high, he’d probably have succeeded in raping me.

I didn’t believe Oliver would leave Franz alone; I didn’t believe his Kurt persona was as easy to shrug off as a worn coat; I didn’t believe I would be going down on him at Villa Sciarra anytime soon.

I sat down on the rim of the tub and realised that I 'd become attached to it already; to that ghastly greenish porcelain and to the gloomy light; and I imagined how Oliver must have come to consider it as a home, which he would lose, because of me. What right had I to tell him what to do, when I had never gone through half of what he’d had to endure? I was pestering him with sex when his heart and mind most needed tending to.

My tears were tears of compassion.

 

“We should bring back Amalia’s car in case she needs it,” I said.

Rico was taking a nap, exhausted as he was by the events and his own frailty.

I had brought him a small plate of _farfalle_ with red pesto and he’d eaten them before dozing off.

Oliver was peeling an apple and I was preparing coffee.

“I can go on my own,” I said, “And drop in at Nash’s too.”

“I’ll drive you there,” he replied, “I want to speak to your friend and thank him. I was rude last night.”

“He understood the situation,” I said, “And he’s on your side.”

I ventured a pale smile, “Nash loved having you as his dealer and who wouldn’t? Gorgeous, reliable and with the best junk money can buy.”

He smiled back. “I hope it’s not a metaphor for my private parts,” he quipped.

Oliver halved the apple and scooped out its core. I raised the lid of the Bialetti to check whether the liquid was starting to splutter out.

“I’m sorry,” I said, without looking at him, “I shouldn’t have, this morning I mean, but sometimes I can’t,” I shook my head several times, “I just can’t deal with things.”

It was frustratingly difficult to explain, but Oliver understood.

“You fight death with life,” he said, “You shouldn’t apologise. We all do it.”

“Yes, but there’s more to it,” I insisted, “Even at Villa Giulia, that was so crass of me; yes, crass, that’s what I was.”

Oliver burst into laughter.

“A healthy young man wanting to get laid is as normal as a duck craving water,” he said. “And I want you too, just so we are clear, all the time. Your desires are mine too.”

There was a noise like the bubbling of a quagmire.

“Want some?” I said, indicating the coffee.

“You have no idea,” he replied, with a cheeky wink.

I groaned and turned off the gas.

We decided to drink it on the balcony, knowing that we’d want a fag afterwards.

“I’m scared,” I murmured, contemplating the pinkish haze that misted the skyline.

We were leaning against the wrought-iron railings and it reminded me of our first night together.

“About the future?” he ventured, brushing the line of my jaw with the back of his hand.

I nodded, “I was thinking of Samarra, before, while you and Rico were out here.”

“The Sukkah 53a,” he said, “Maugham’s Sheppey is the second play I ever saw.”

“That’s, what, really?” I marvelled.

“Yeah, the actors weren’t that good, but it stuck in my memory because of the skeleton they had on stage. I was nine and it scared me stiff.”

“What was the first one?”

“Guess,” he said, setting the now empty cup on the small table.

“The Wizard of Oz,” I replied.

“Close,” he grinned, “It was Alice in Wonderland. The Red Queen was a boy who looked like you. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I was eight.”

He plucked a cigarette out of the pack, put it between his lips and stared at me, waiting. I grabbed hold of the lighter and used it while holding Oliver’s gaze. He sucked on the Lucky Strike, hollowing his cheeks. I felt it all the way to my anus.

There was no remedy for this, other than admitting that it was destiny; my Samarra.

 

I spotted the 2CV and breathed a sigh of relief.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am of seeing this beige relic again,” I said.

Oliver smiled and patted my thigh.

“One day you will say the same about me,” he joked. “I’m seven years older and already look like I could be your godfather.”

“ _The_ Godfather, you mean,” I said, immediately regretting it.

“Rapier wit,” he replied, “And magic fingers; what more could a man desire? No, don’t say it.”

I elbowed him and he tousled my hair.

We parked next to the relic and got out to take a good look at it and make sure it was unscathed.

“You okay to come see Nash?” I asked.

“He’s your friend and he was there for you when you needed help,” he replied.

 

“This is where I saw you that first time,” I said, indicating the bar tabaccheria. “I caught only a glimpse, but I was sure it was you. And I thought I smelled the Roger & Gallet in the hallway.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Only my overactive senses,” I replied, scratching the back of my head. “But I wanted it so badly to be you, Oliver.”

“Even after you discovered what I was doing?”

“Yes,” I said, “Because I came to find you and I never let you go.”

Oliver knew it already but he liked to hear me say it. I would tell him every day for the rest of our lives, if that was necessary.

 

We hadn’t phoned to make sure that Nash was at home, because I knew that after a dinner party he liked to tidy up and then relax.

He buzzed us in and was at the door, waiting for us.

“Are you okay?” he asked me, adjusting his glasses with the tip of his middle finger.

“My head hurts a little and I look like a bruised peach, but aside from that,” I replied. Oliver had swallowed his spit at the mention of the fruit and started to cough.

“I’ll get us something to drink,” said Nash, “Peroni all right for you?”

We nodded and he ushered us into the sitting room.

After he’d gone, Oliver scowled at me. “Warn me next time,” he said.

“I swear it was unintentional,” I replied, “Only non-metaphorical peaches allowed, from this moment on.”

He rolled his eyes and turned away to hide a smile. I loved him so much I was bursting with it.

 

“I’m afraid it was my fault,” Nash said, as he poured the beer into a pint glass. “I should have minded my own business.”

Oliver said nothing, but he chewed the inside of his cheek.

“I’m a journalist and keeping my mouth shut is against the ethos of my profession,” my friend joked, “I didn’t mean to put Elio in danger.”

“You didn’t,” I said, “I was just unlucky. By the way, you never told me about the fire in Via Franklin.”

Nash looked at Oliver who sipped his drink and gave him tacit permission to speak.

“They reported it as an accident: old building, defective boiler, wooden fixtures, a major fire hazard. In reality, it was a rave with masses of coke and acid; young boys and older punters with fat wallets. Rumour has it that one of them was a Cardinal, which would explain the silence in the press.”

“Did you try to write about it?” I asked, making him snigger.

“I don’t have a death wish,” he replied, “Besides, I am only a lifestyle journalist not Carl Bernstein.”

“But surely if people died,” I said.

“Those who died didn’t matter,” Oliver spat out, “They were drug addicts and prostitutes and petty criminals; the dregs of society.”

I was horrified, thinking of the San Lorenzo commune going up in flames and nobody giving it a second thought.

“You can’t change the world,” Nash said to Oliver, “And you most certainly can’t change Rome and its ways. We may live here and feel at home, but we are still strangers in a strange land.”

“I don’t mind that,” Oliver replied, “I’ve always felt out of place in my country. Here at least I know why.”

“That’s an interesting way of looking at the problem,” Nash grinned, “You should be a writer.”

I laughed and Oliver soon joined in.

“Oliver nearly wrote a book on Heraclitus and now works as a translator,” I replied, smugly.

Nash let out an admiring whistle.

“I wish you’d let me write a piece about you,” he said.

“I’m his agent,” I chimed in, “You’ll be the first we’ll speak to when Oliver’s famous and in demand. He will spill the beans and you’ll get your Pulitzer.”

“I’m not going to be famous,” Oliver argued, and I could see that he was embarrassed.

“You might just do that,” Nash insisted, “Italy likes nothing better than beautiful people with a shady past and an interesting story to tell.”

“Not if they are gay,” I said.

“You’d be surprised.”

Oliver was looking at us with amusement.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said, “You shouldn’t encourage Elio. He’s already provided me with the outlines of my next three novels.”

“Let’s drink to that,” Nash exclaimed, raising his glass. “And I think you should use Kurt as a pseudonym. It’s catchy and I have a feeling it won’t be easily forgotten.”


	33. Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's just say that Elio gets something he's wanted for a while...
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Thanks so much to all of you for being here with me. The story would not mean anything without you lovely readers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First generation HIV tests were so unreliable that almost anything could influence the results.

 

The time came with considerably less fanfare than either of us had anticipated.

I was typing and Oliver was playing cards with Rico when the phone rang. It was 2:48 on a cloudy and stuffy Sunday afternoon.

“Vergani,” the voice said, calm and reassuring. “I would like you and your partner to come and see me now, if possible.”

“Is anything wrong?” I murmured.

“We’ll talk once you are here.”

Oliver came up behind me and hugged me.

“We are going to be alright,” he repeated, trying to soothe me.

In the end, we had to tell Rico the truth or he would have worried even more by making up god knows what other stories.

“Come back as soon as possible,” he said, fighting back the tears.

 

“I won’t leave you, no matter what,” I told Oliver, once we were on the road, “I thought I should say it again, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I haven’t,” he replied, with a wry smile, “I’m well acquainted with the Perlman brand of stubbornness and I fully surrender to it.”

“I like the sound of that,” I noted, “But I doubt you’ll stick to it, since you’re just as obstinate.”

He laughed and squeezed my hand.

“I promise I won’t push you away,” he said, “I tried and look where it got me.”

“It’s more complicated than it was when we first met, but I will never want anybody else.”

We stayed silent the rest of the way, only gazing at one another from time to time, seeking and finding comfort.

The assistant was absent and it was Doctor Vergani who greeted us.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said, after she’d ushered us into her office.

I was shaking slightly and my hands were cold despite the warm temperature. Oliver’s jaw was clenched, but he seemed otherwise unperturbed.

The doctor returned with a brown file in her hands.

She sat down and placed it on the desk.

“Let me start with the good news,” she said, going straight to the point. “May I call you by your first names? It’s less formal that way.” We both nodded. “Kurt, I don’t know what happened with your previous tests, but like I said stress may have played a major role in contaminating the results. Both IFA and Western blot assays came back negative.”

I couldn’t resist and jumped onto Oliver’s lap. He was stunned and couldn’t speak a word, but his heart was beating fast and his lips were trembling.

“Are you sure?” he croaked, after he’d recovered.

“One hundred per cent,” she replied, “You still have to be careful, but you are virus-free. Now, as for Elio,” she went on, contemplating me with motherly solicitude. I did not like that look.

“Your Western Blot was negative, but the result of the IFA is not as satisfactory, which is why I’d like to re-run this test. I suspect that stress is affecting you too and maybe some underlying condition. You wrote on your form that you don’t suffer from anything in particular but I’d like to do a full blood panel.”

“And you will repeat the IFA too?” I asked, not even knowing what I was saying.

“Yes, I will do that as well,” she replied. “I don’t want you to worry. The Western blot is the more reliable of the two and judging by your paleness I’d say there’s a good chance you’re anaemic.”

I caught her staring at the bruise on my cheek, which she’d ignored up to then.

“I was involved in a fight on Friday night,” I explained, “Nothing serious; I had it checked at the hospital.”

“He suffered a nosebleed,” Oliver interjected, and she nodded.

“My blood was all over him,” I said, “We kissed afterwards. Is that, did I, could he have been infected?”

“That’s highly unlikely,” she replied, “Even if you were positive, which I am telling you it’s not the case.”

“But you said the IFA was positive,” said Oliver, whose tone had a belligerent tinge.

“I never said that,” she countered, “Not as satisfactory, were my words. The specimens were reactive in the screening and confirmatory tests but the duplicate ones were not. Normally this should be considered a negative, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

“You said Kurt was 100% clear,” I said, “What am I?”

“I’d say 99.99%, but if you asked another doctor they might say 100%.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Oliver snapped.

She didn’t lose her cool.

“You are perfectly entitled to ask for a second and third opinion.”

“Could you take more blood from me today and do it again?” I enquired.

“I could, but I would prefer to take a sample in the morning in order to do the full blood panel. The blood can be used for the second IFA too.”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, and please do not eat anything after midnight. I’ll see you here at 8am.”

I agreed and forced Oliver to come away with me. He was like a pit bull about to pounce.

 

Outside, the sun had come out and the clouds had all but disappeared.

“Oliver,” I cried, and flew into his arms. “You are okay, you are okay,” I kept saying.

“We should see another doctor,” he said, caressing my hair and neck, “That 99.99% is bullshit. She shouldn’t have frightened you for nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” I replied, pushing my face into his throat, “Maybe I have some other condition I don’t know of, like she said. Anaemia is a possibility: I used to suffer from it when I was a kid.”

“You never said,” he muttered.

“It never came up in conversation,” I replied, “It’s like having the flu or chickenpox: you don't talk about it.”

“I bet you ate nothing but pizza and pasta when you were alone,” he said, “I’m gonna cook you steak, minced beef and a tonne of spinach. No skipping meals or lunching on Nutella.”

I groaned, “You are not taking my Nutella away from me or I will go on strike.”

He chuckled, “And what would that entail?”

“I don’t know but I will think of something,” I replied, pinching his arm.

“Okay, you can keep your Nutella if you let me take care of you.”

I wanted to kiss him, but we were in front of a busy hospital.

“Let’s go back to the car,” he said, releasing me from his embrace but keeping his hand on my waist.

 

We drove to the Gianicolo and parked by the _Fontanone_.

The view was stunning and the fountain always took my breath away.

“We should go home,” I said, “Rico will be worried.”

Oliver led me to a bench behind a clump of trees.

“Just breathe for a moment,” he said, “The air up here is so pure.”

I did as told and after a few deep breaths, I started to calm down.

“You are okay,” I said, my heart suddenly catching up with my mind, “I’m so happy for you, Oliver.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe it yet. It’s been so long that I almost got used to living with the uncertainty.”

“We should celebrate,” I replied, “Take Rico out for dinner. He’s strong enough to go to a restaurant.”

Oliver pondered my suggestion.

“There’s a _trattoria_ near Via Prisciano that I’ve always wanted to try.”

“We’ll have to be done before midnight,” I said. “I feel like I might turn into a pumpkin if I disobey.”

He pulled me close and kissed my cheek, my nose and my lips.

“My precious little pumpkin,” he whispered, and laughed when I grimaced and pretended to resist his embrace.

 

“I am full enough to burst,” I whined, prodding my rounded belly.

The restaurant was as good as its reputation and Oliver had made me eat lasagne and a beef steak with grilled asparagus. Rico had laughed all through the meal, watching the two of us bicker like an old married couple: I had fun pretending that the portions were excessive and Oliver enjoyed his role of nurse and protective lover.

“You will thank me tomorrow morning,” he replied, lying down next to me. “Will you be missing any lessons?”

“Not if I can be at Santa Cecilia by ten.”

“Should be fine,” he said, rolling on to his side, “I’m going to see Doc and tell him about what happened on Friday night.”

“What if Tony is there? I don’t want him to get his hands on you again.”

“He got the message, don’t worry.”

We had shared a bottle of wine and had capped the dinner with a shot of grappa. The fire - which had been sluggish because of the many shocks of the day – was starting to burn again. I slung one leg over Oliver’s hip and buried my hand into his hair.

“Come to think of it,” I murmured, licking my lips, “I didn’t get cream with my dessert.”

I noticed the change in his breathing and the twitch of his pelvis.

“We should,” he whispered, “Maybe wait until, just to be sure.”

“One hundred per cent sounds very sure to me,” I argued, moving my hand to his chest. I rubbed it and played with his nipples. I could almost feel the flex of his cock inside his shorts.  I wasn’t going to touch it until Oliver granted me permission. I watched his expression go from bewildered to lustful to anxious.

“Vergani gave you the all clear,” I said, softly, “Why are you hesitating?”

He closed his eyes and a faint blush coloured his cheeks.

“It’s been a while,” he replied, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

I pushed him down until his back hit the mattress and climbed on top of him.

“Oliver, love,” I husked, sucking on his earlobe, “All I want is your fat cock down my throat. How could you possibly disappoint me?”

He opened his mouth to reply and I slipped my tongue inside it. Our crotches were delighting in a bit of Princeton rub, but I was careful not to let it spin out of control.

“Is that a yes?” I asked, as I bit on his chin and lower lip.

“Please,” he moaned, “God, yes, yes.”

I kissed him again, deeper this time, to show him what I was about to do.

All the times I had remembered it and those, more recently, when I had imagined it, not one of those instances resembled reality. I couldn’t tease or be seductive; I couldn’t even strip him of his shorts with any measure of poise. I shoved them down his thighs and he kicked them off while muttering profanities.

His cock was hard and wet, and I wanted to inhale its smell, but I couldn’t wait a single second more.

I swirled my tongue around the head and lapped at the juices then wrapped my lips around it and finally – finally – sucked it with all the pent-up desire of the past months and years.

Oliver arched his back and cried out my name. He placed his hand on my head, hesitant. I made sure he understood what I wanted: he remembered that I liked when he knotted his fingers into my hair and let himself lose control. I trusted him not to hurt me and it drove me crazy to feel the power that I had over him.

I surely lacked technique and finesse, but I was hungry for him and moaned loudly as I dribbled all over his shaft and balls. I stroked what I couldn’t fit in my mouth and it wasn’t much since I did my best to suppress my gag reflex. I felt it when he was about to come, even before he tried to pull me away; I made a humming noise and licked the underside then gave the head a vicious suck.

“Fuck yes, oh, god, Elio, yes,” he cried out, as he shot his load down my throat.

He was still catching his breath when I pulled at my dick like a man possessed and spilled my release on his belly.

“The hell was that?” he panted, when I collapsed next to him.

I giggled and reached for his hand.

“Not too bad, considering,” I replied, linking our fingers together.

He turned to look at me and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

“I swear it’s never been so good,” he said, “Good is not even the word.”

“I had plans for our first time,” I explained, “The Fountain of the Vices inside Villa Sciarra. I wanted to go down on you while you gazed at the stars.”

“We visited a fountain this afternoon and I just saw a bunch of stars.”

He caressed my face and gave me a smile filled with tenderness.

“We are going to be alright,” he declared, and I believed him.


	34. Pumpkin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and plans being hatched....
> 
>  
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Next: smut from the word go, lmao

I awoke to the aroma of fresh coffee.

Next to me, Oliver was beaming.

“Someone’s very chipper already,” I muttered.

“The sun is shining, the birds are singing and my pumpkin has still not turned into a carriage,” he replied, leaning down to kiss the tip of my nose.

“You got your fairy tale all mixed-up,” I argued, stretching my arms above my head.

“I don’t think so,” he grinned, “What would I do with a carriage anyway?”

“It’s too early to be so cheerful,” I mumbled, closing my eyes again.

“But I brought mineral water and cuddles,” he replied, “Not necessarily in that order.”

I pursed my lips. “I want coffee.”

“After the blood test, I’ll take you to breakfast anywhere you like.”

“Come here,” I urged him and when he did, I smelled his breath. “You drank it already,” I said, and pulled him down for a smooch. He tasted like peppermint and Lavazza, with a hint of sweetness.

“Better than nothing,” I sighed, and he slapped my bare thigh.

“Not very romantic,” he chided, “Using me as a caffeine supplement.”

I looked into his eyes and was stunned at the change that had already taken place since the previous day: he seemed younger, lighter, blonder and so much happier.

“Too much talking, not enough cuddles,” I pouted; he pinned me to the mattress and peppered my face and neck with kisses. I wrapped my legs around him and forced him down on top of me.

“I can’t even get my second dose of cream,” I murmured, as my pelvis thrust up to meet his.

He groaned, “We’ll be late. But I’ll make up for it, I promise.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” I replied.

We made out for a while longer, despite my morning breath and his concerns about tardiness. Oliver was soft and warm and I wished to spend many days and nights in bed with him.

 

“What’s happened to your pretty face?” asked Amalia, as soon as she set eyes on me.

Oliver had returned the car to her while I'd stayed in the Escort, so she hadn’t seen me yet.

“Someone hit me,” I replied, “But I fought back. It’s nothing, don’t worry.”

She cast an interrogative gaze at Oliver, who immediately turned serious.

“He was where he shouldn’t have been and it won’t happen again.”

His tone convinced her and she went back to her chores. Rico was still asleep, she’d informed us, and she’d make sure he had his breakfast on the balcony since it was such a beautiful day.

 

“I was thinking about something while we were talking to Amalia,” I said, as Oliver drove us to Villa Giulia.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he joked.

“You know that Vergani was part of a team that tested this new HIV drug,” I said, and after he nodded, I went on, “What if she was still accepting volunteers? From what I read AZT is about to be approved by the FDA, so they will have dozens of pilot schemes already running. Rico is doing better, but what if he gets worse again? I don’t want him to die.”

“That’s not up to us to decide. He has a family,” Oliver argued.

“We are his family,” I exclaimed, “You took him in and hired a nurse and made sure he was fed and looked after. There’s a real chance he might get better with this drug.”

“Or worse,” he said, “I have read many scare stories on the Native.”

“That’s what they are, aren’t they. They lost any credibility when they refused to accept that promiscuity heightened the risk of HIV.”

“They weren’t the only ones, but you have a point,” he replied. “It’s just that after what happened to me I find it hard to trust doctors.”

“They make mistakes and horrible blunders too, I agree, but what if there was a chance that he could lead a normal life? Find someone to love and go back to his vegetables stall? It’s not because I don’t want him to stay with us,” I hastened to add, “I love him like a brother, I hope you know that.”

Oliver’s eyes were bright with tears when he glanced at me.

“He loves you too,” he replied, “And who wouldn’t?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s this guy called Kurt, good-looking and very sexy but rather grumpy, who isn’t my biggest fan. First time he saw me, he kicked me out of his house.”

He smiled and briefly squeezed my thigh.

“You are omitting some details though,” he said, “My sources say that there was a fair bit of tongue action before you got your marching orders.”

I made a noise of disgust.

“What,” he countered, “Are you denying it?”

“That’s not very romantic, is all I am saying; using me as a tongue wrestling partner.”

He laughed and I leaned into him, rubbing my cheek against his shoulder.

 

The assistant was back at her post and she was still attracted to Oliver. He didn’t notice, so I ignored it too. After all, he was mine and as long as no touching was involved, anyone was permitted to admire him from afar.

After the blood had been drawn, I was given a large glass of orange juice.

When I felt ready to go, I asked Doctor Vergani if she had a moment to discuss something. She allowed me ten minutes, after which she had another appointment.

I told her what I’d already said to Oliver and she listened to me without interrupting. When I was done, she opened one of her drawers and plucked out a thick folder.

“If you had asked me a week ago, I’d have told you that it was impossible,” she said. “But unfortunately one of our trial patients has died.”

“We don’t want him to get a placebo,” Oliver intervened. “That would be too cruel.”

“We are done with the blind trials,” she explained, “We are now testing the efficacy of the drug on patients at different stages of the illness. I will need to examine your friend and to inform him of the risks before anything is decided.”

She perused her diary.

“I could do Thursday afternoon at 4:30. By then I will also have the results of your tests.”

“That’s great,” I replied.

Oliver didn’t say anything, but he shook her hand before we left.

 

We were back on the road after a cappuccino and _cornetto_ breakfast, when Oliver reminded me that he was going to see Doc.

“You’ll tell him that you are done?”

“I will be after I have made the last deliveries. A couple of old clients, no danger involved, I promise; as nice as your friend Nash and as harmless.”

“And you will call Enzo and tell him?”

“Yes, but I want to find out more about the Police raid. If I could tell him that I saved his _family_ from being investigated, maybe he’ll leave me alone.”

“You said he wasn’t going to pester you,” I said.

“He won’t, but he will need to find a replacement and might rope me in to help as a last favour. I’d rather not do that and if I tell him that things are hotting up, I’m certain that he will cut his losses rather than risk his organisation being scrutinised.”

I smiled, “ _Hotting up,_ is that your street slang? “

“Very funny,” he hit back, but he was grinning.

We had reached Santa Cecilia and there was no way he would find a parking space at that hour; we kissed goodbye and agreed to meet back at home by dinner time.

 

Sabino did a theatrical double take when he saw the bruise on my cheek.

“That’s what happens when you get into bed with a man mountain,” he said.

“That wasn’t Oliver,” I replied, “He had nothing to do with it.”

“Who’s Oliver? I thought he was called Kurt. And don’t tell me I forgot his name, because I remember everything about him, including the precise shade of blue of his eyes.”

“That’s complicated, but I’ll explain later.”

We were finished at two, so I asked him if he minded to come and practice at my place.

“You don’t have a piano.”

“Oliver does,” I replied, a little smugly, “And there’s a friend I’d like you to meet. He’s sick, but he’ll enjoy the company.”

 

Sabino and Rico didn’t hit it off at first.

Where Sabino was brash, Rico was mellow, and although they had so many things in common, including a very similar taste in men, they did not click.

It was only when I mentioned that Sabino was a rabid fan of Renato that Rico finally thawed.

“I haven’t been able to go see him because, I mean, look at me,” he said, indicating his still-skeletal limbs.

“I can drive you there tonight, if your feel like it,” Sabino said, “He’s just back from Viareggio and he promised he’d sing for us and sign a lot of autographs. And when you are tired, you can just sit in the car and listen to some music.”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Rico protested.

“I’ll lend you some of my clothes,” I replied. “We are about the same size.”

It was agreed that Sabino would pick him up after dinner and bring him back at around eleven.

 

Oliver returned while Sabino and I were butchering the Kreutzer Sonata.

“That’s mystery man,” my friend said, visibly excited.

I ran out of the room and into Oliver’s arms.

“Sabino’s here,” I said, “I told him your real name. He’s taking Rico out tonight.”

“What, where?” he asked, visibly puzzled.

“We are going to see Renato,” Sabino replied, “I promise I’ll make sure he sits in the car the moment he’s had enough.”

He was addressing Oliver with such deference I’d never witnessed him use before with anybody else, including our teachers.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Oliver asked him, while holding me close.

“Another time,” my friend said, “Got to shower and primp before I meet Renato.”

“Fair enough,” Oliver said, with a bright smile, “We’ll see you later then?”

 

“I need a shower too.”

Oliver unbuttoned his shirt and I admired the view.

“How did it go?”

He sat on the chair and toed his shoes off.

“Doc’s not happy; I was the most reliable among his suppliers. He understands, but that’s gonna be a major headache for him.”

“I wish there was an easy solution, but there isn’t. You’ve done your bit and now it’s time to go back to living your life.”

He chuckled, “You don’t have to convince me, pumpkin. I’m already on board with the programme. I won’t put you at risk ever again, that much is clear.”

I went up to him and tousled his hair.

“What do I have to do to stop you calling me that?”

Oliver’s smile turned devilish.

“You could start by showering with me and getting me very clean, if you see what I mean.”

I did see, and I removed my clothes in record time.

 

I loved washing Oliver’s hair because he looked like a child on Christmas Eve whenever I massaged his scalp. He sat on the rim of the tub while I worked the shampoo into lather. His eyes closed and lips parted: he was delightful and so were the hums and moans of pleasure he emitted every time I tugged his hair or scratched his skin with my nails.

“You enjoying yourself?” I quipped.

“Hmm, yes,” he sighed.

“Gonna take care of your other hair,” I whispered.

I kneeled down between his parted legs. He was semi-hard already and his balls were heavy in my hands.

“Don’t look,” I ordered him and he did as told.

I reached for the bottle of vanilla oil, but instead of squirting the liquid into the palm of my hand, I let it drizzle onto his cock-head.

Oliver hissed and his dick swelled into full hardness.

“Ask me,” I whispered in his ear.

“Please,” he croaked.

“Please what?”

“I need you, Elio” he begged, and that was all I wanted to hear.

 


	35. Emptiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title is deceptive ;)
> 
> I know what I said in the previous chapter, but my characters do what they like, especially Elio.
> 
> Pleasure is delayed, but it's there in spades....
> 
> Elio's POV then Oliver's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I filched the "emptiness" anecdote from Ian McEwan's The Comfort of Strangers.

At first it was hot and steamy: his dick in my fist, my tongue flicking his nipples, my hands kneading his thighs; he was moaning my name, begging for more.

But then I looked into his face and I froze mid-gesture: the shampoo foam was trickling down his forehead and into his eyes, tracing a slow path along the bridge of his nose. He was blinking and sniffling, trying to get rid of it, not wanting to use his fingers which were busy, digging into my skin. He reminded me of a giant puppy and I felt sick with tenderness for him.

“Wait, I’ll just rinse your hair first,” I said, and he whimpered.

“No, no, no, please, I’m fine,” he countered, gazing at me through hazy eyes.

I scooped up the lather from his cheek and at that moment he sneezed.

“Sorry,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. That led to more sneezes until I decided it was best for us to shower. His erection had wilted and he was upset with himself for spoiling the moment.

“We have time,” I said, smiling at his scowl, “And we can be as loud as we like, since Rico won’t be there.”

He angled his face towards the spray while I washed his back and his ass. I slid my fingers between his buttocks and made sure he was clean everywhere. He let me do it and stayed still, not once trying to provoke me. His immobility aroused me more than any seduction. He was being passive on purpose, I was sure of it. The vibe was unmistakable and I took the hint: I washed his whole body with care, setting aside the sexual aspect of the ritual.

We didn’t need to rush; we had all the time in the world.

 

“I look awful,” Rico remarked, gazing sideways at his reflection in the mirror.

I had lent him my black leather pants and a mesh top I had worn the last time I’d gone dancing with Sabino at _Uonna_ , a Goth nightclub on the Via Cassia.

“If you don’t like these, I have a purple shirt that maybe,” I said.

“No, I love everything, but I have no ass, like none at all,” he exclaimed, patting his tiny posterior.

“I have none either. Here, touch,” I urged him.

When he hesitated, I grabbed his hand and put it on my backside.

He erupted into giggles.

“It’s a tiny bump of an ass,” he said.

“Want to know the truth? Once I caught sight of it in a mirror - it was one of those they call cheval and it was pointing at the one on the outside of the wardrobe – and for a moment I didn’t realise it was my ass. I was in shock for a day. Ugh.”

“The leather makes it look bigger,” he conceded.

“Leather pants only look good on slender beauties like you,” I said.

“And what about my face,” he groaned, “I wish I had a tan.”

“Renato is as white as a kabuki mask,” I argued. “In fact, you’d look a lot like him if you wore a wig. Maybe we should buy one.”

He winked at me.

“You could wear it for Oliver,” he said, “That and frilly underwear.”

I flushed crimson.

“Too personal?” he asked, frowning.

“No, it’s just, we haven’t, not yet,” I muttered.

“The beginning is the best part,” he said. “And the middle bit; in fact, all of it but the ending. But there will be none for you two.”

I squinted at our reflections in the mirror.

“Listen, I have something to,” I started, but he silenced me with a finger on my lips.

“Whatever it is, you’ll tell me tomorrow,” he said, “Tonight I want to pretend to be just a normal boy going out with his friend to see the most amazing singer in the world.”

I wrapped my arm around his waist. “Fine,” I replied, “But think of it as good news. And as for your face, don’t worry. Sabino always carries a pouch stuffed with make-up. He tried to make me wear fake lashes once.”

“Why? You don’t need them; you’ve got great ones already.”

“It was for a party. I wanted to get laid.”

I shouldn’t have said that.

“That’s finished for me,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that and I won’t hear of it.”

I hugged him and he buried his face in the crook of my neck.

The door bell rang.

“Here’s your date,” I said.

“Can I borrow your Armani jacket too?” he asked.

“Sure, I never wear it anyway,” I replied, “Too preppy for me.”

“But not for me?”

“You can get away with it.”

I helped him into it and admired the effect. His eyes were dancing with joy.

 

Sabino left behind him a trail of Saint Laurent’s Opium and a rather bemused Oliver.

“Was he wearing a sarong?” he asked me.

“Why, do you have anything against them?”

He reflected on my question for a moment then grinned.

“It must be comfortable, especially during the summer.”

I pictured him wearing one and was forced to swallow convulsively in order not to cough up a lung.

 

Over dinner, the three of us had talked about music, books and television programmes. Everything had been light and amusing, but from time to time Oliver had cast a lingering look in my direction. When I gazed back, his eyes were fixed on some other object, but there was a half-smile on his lips.

While I was dressing Rico, he’d been working on his translation and after the boys left for La Camilluccia, he returned to his desk. I sat on the rug by the couch with a couple of textbooks. I gave myself thirty minutes, after which I’d call Oliver’s bluff.

He was wearing that pyjama jacket he always left unbuttoned and dark-grey sweatpants. After the shower, he’d left his hair dry naturally; since he raked his fingers through it when he wrote, it was charmingly tousled-up.

Ten minutes later, he uttered a grunt, slammed the dictionary shut and reached for his cigarettes.

“Don’t move,” I said, and ran to him.

I leaned down and kissed the side of his neck. When I licked his collarbone, he tilted his head and sighed. “Finally,” he said.

“Was that a challenge?” I asked, yanking the jacket off his shoulder.

“Was thinking that maybe you’d had enough of me after last night,” he replied.

“Because of what happened in the bath?”

He nodded.

“Sometimes I just love you too much to lay my hands on you,” I said.

“That’s never happened before,” he argued.

“We were always short of time,” I explained. “Every minute counted, every second was precious. Now, if I want, I can spend an entire day just staring at you while you work.”

“Wanna do that tonight?”

“Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed, “Come to bed, before I have you here on this chair.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and took my hand.

 

We removed our clothes and lay down on our sides, facing each other.

“Tell me something you’ve never said to anyone,” I whispered, brushing my lips against his.

He stroked my back and pulled me closer.

“Let’s see,” he said, “Oh, okay, yes; this might sound strange to you, but I don’t remember my first kiss. I was at a New Year’s party, there were buckets of rum and Coke: I was drunk hours before midnight. I danced with several girls and one of them kissed me. Later I found out who it was, but I can’t say I recall the details.”

“Not even if you liked it?”

“I didn’t care much for it. In fact, I thought I could do without kissing for the rest of my life.”

My tongue traced the outline of his mouth.

“What changed your mind?”

He tried to bite my chin, but I drew back.

“A boy,” he said, “I couldn’t get enough of his kisses.”

“Were they better than mine?”

“I didn’t love him.”

I surged forward and slid my tongue between his parted lips. I ended up on top of him, trying to pour my whole being into our embrace.

He’d shaved and his face was baby-smooth, which made the friction between our chests even more arousing by contrast.

We parted to catch breath and I saw the fluttering pulse in his neck.

“Want to know another secret?” he asked.

He didn’t wait for my answer. “There was a kind of emptiness in me, even after the best fuck or the greatest orgasm. I felt it here,” he rolled me over, took my hand and put it between his legs. He guided my middle finger to the spot between his balls and his anus. “Not always,” he said, his voice already treacly with want. “But when I did feel it, it made me wonder if something was wrong with me.”

I drew lazy circles on his skin, but I was burning up inside.

“Was it the same boy who sorted you out?”

Oliver looked me straight in the eye.

“It was you, Elio, on our second night together.”

It was one of these cases when the animalistic side prevailed and instinct took over. I went down on him and replaced my fingers with my mouth. I greedily sucked on his flesh while my hands held the back of his thighs. I heard him cry out, but I was too wired up to care. Oliver was giving himself to me and I wanted to take until he begged me to stop. And that gave me pause.

“You okay?” I asked, in a scratchy voice.

“Hmm, hmm,” was his reply. His chest and neck were flushed and his eyes dark and half-shut.

“Say stop if you want me to.”

He made a sound between a laugh and a scoff.

“Rather die,” he murmured.

 

I had not done this since Bergamo. I had told myself that life had to go on, that I could and would forget, but there were lines that couldn’t be crossed. One of them was the most intimate of acts, the most sacred of kisses.

Oliver had asked me to wash him because he wanted my mouth on his anus and my tongue inside of him. I wished I could see his face while I was doing this, be inside his head to know what he was feeling.

I traced the rim with the tip of my tongue and felt it flutter. I drenched it in spit and heard Oliver’s loud moans. I pursed my lips around it and suckled, but did not penetrate it. The moans became a litany of unformed words and it was when Oliver got up on one elbow and tried to grasp the back my head that I acted: my hand closed around his cock while my tongue breached him.

“Fuck, oh yes, fuck,” he sobbed, as his back hit the mattress again.

His dick was stiff and purple, and mine was leaking all over the covers. If I kept stroking him, he’d soon come. Instead, I put thumb and forefinger in my mouth and coated them in spit. I wanted Oliver to never feel empty again.

 

***

 

The prevalent sensation was burning: not a metaphorical one, but a real fire scorching my insides. My groin was pulsating and I couldn’t stop moaning.

Elio was tormenting me, Elio was giving me ecstasy: I wasn’t sure which.

His finger had found my sweet spot and rubbed until my balls throbbed with need. I came and didn’t come, my dick was so wet I must have, I thought, but the heaviness in my pelvis said otherwise.

I was about to scream when his lips, his plush talented lips, wrapped around the head of my dick and slid down and down, until I was inside his throat.

“Christ, yes, yes,” I shouted, as the bliss crested, gushing out in jets after jets of semen. I wouldn’t stop coming and when I dared to look, Elio’s chin and throat were covered with it, and he was trying to swallow what was in his mouth.

“Here, come here,” I begged, and when I kissed him, I drank my own juice.

 

“Can’t wait to reciprocate,” I whispered into his hair.

I had tried to pleasure him but he’d already come, frotting against the sheets.

We’d talked about intercourse and had agreed that we would do it only after Elio got his test results in the summer. It would be a long wait and in the meantime our intimate relations would be unjustly unbalanced.

“You have gone months without sex,” he replied, “And I am going to wreck you any chance I get.”

“Still semi-hard,” I said, showing him the evidence.

“But not feeling empty,” he countered, palming my crotch.

I opened my legs and smiled.

“Never again.”


	36. Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on and it's time for Elio to do something he's been putting off for a while...
> 
> We are almost there, but before the sex marathon Oliver will need to solve the Kurt problem, which hasn't fully gone away, as you might expect....
> 
> Elio's POV

Oliver had insisted that he wanted to be present when I told Rico about the AZT trial.

“You will make the case for the defence, while I will play devil’s advocate,” he said.

“And try to convince him that it’s too risky?” I argued.

“Maybe it is,” he replied, defiantly, “The side effects might be worse than the pain he’s suffering now.”

“It’s like saying that chemotherapy is worse than cancer.”

“That’s debatable.”

He frowned then turned away from me.

We’d slept in late since I had no morning classes and he was a free agent of sorts.

The discussion about Rico was taking place in the bathroom, while we washed away the remains of the previous night’s lovemaking. My lips were sore and there were bite marks all over Oliver’s backside: I hadn’t been able to resist, I didn’t want to resist.

“Why are you upset with me?” I asked him, as I debated whether to shave the beginnings of a moustache.

“I am not,” he said, kissing the top of my spine, “I love your optimism and your zest for life.”

“He has a chance to get better,” I argued, “What’s the alternative?”

“I know, you are right,” he conceded. “And as for that caterpillar under your nose: let it be. It’s cute, makes you look all grown-up.”

I tried to nudge him in the ribs, but he backed away.

“I _am_ grown-up,” I muttered, “Just not as hairy as you.”

“Jealous?” he was smiling at my reflection in the mirror.

“Do I need to be?”

He wrapped his arms around my torso. “I wouldn’t change a thing,” he replied, “Not even the caterpillar.”

 

Oliver was cooking scrambled eggs, while Rico and I drank orange juice and ate Nutella on toast.

Our friend was incandescent with happiness.

“Renato was there and he loved the mesh top! He told me that he had the exact same one and that it’s been very lucky for him.”

“I hope Sabino wasn’t hogging the limelight.”

“You should have seen him: he was paralysed with shock. He couldn’t believe Renato was talking to us.”

“That must be a first,” I remarked, “And did you get his autograph?”

“He signed the cover of Madame. It’s one of my favourites.”

“And were you okay? Not too tired, I mean,” asked Oliver.

“I sat in the car afterwards, but it was fun. I met a few old friends I hadn’t seen in a long time.”

He became serious. “They asked me to meet up and I took their numbers, but I’m not sure it would be a good idea.”

Oliver and I exchanged meaningful looks.

“Remember yesterday when I told you there was something we should discuss?”

Rico nodded.

“Our doctor at Villa Giulia, Doctor Vergani, is a very renowned HIV researcher. She’s involved in the trials for the new drug to treat the virus. One of her trial patients,” I stopped, didn’t know how to go on.

Oliver came to my rescue. “She has an opening for a patient to try AZT. It’s not a placebo, but the actual drug. There will be side effects and no guarantee that it will work for everybody the same way or at all.”

“You are not selling it to him,” I intervened, taking Rico’s hand in mine. “It is supposed to work, but it isn’t a cure.”

“And she’s willing to let me try it?”

“I’m going there on Thursday to collect my blood test results and she’s expecting you as well; only if you want to, obviously.”

Oliver was devouring his eggs but his eyes were fixed on Rico’s face.

“You have time to think about it,” he said, “And perhaps you should contact your family.”

Rico snorted. “What for, they would pester me and I would only feel worse. I’ll tell them when it’s done, if and when I’m better.”

“You’ve already made up your mind,” Oliver remarked.

“What do you think?” our friend exclaimed, “Renato was right, that top is lucky. Can I keep it?” he asked me.

“It’s yours,” I grinned, “If I need it to get laid, I’ll buy another one.”

Oliver was suddenly very interested in his cup of coffee.

“I’m sure it won’t be necessary,” Rico said, “The walls are thick but you can’t say the same for the doors.”

I scratched the back of my head, lost for words.

 

The next few days went swiftly, as we were both quite busy with deadlines.

Oliver hadn’t told me anything about the drugs business and I resolved not to question him until after we’d taken Rico to Villa Giulia.

We went to bed tired but happy, often insisting we wouldn’t be doing anything, just kisses and caresses, but one thing led to another which in turn led to orgasms and lewd smirks at the breakfast table.

I tried to leave marks in hidden places but since Oliver was in the habit of wearing his shirts unbuttoned and his shorts the wrong side of decent, it was a bit of a challenge. Amalia occasionally gazed at him and then at me, wondering what was going on, but since we were evidently very happy, she just shook her head and muttered something Pope-related in Roman slang.

 

Thursday came and I was more nervous for Rico than for my own test results.

“What should I say?” he asked, while we were driving to the hospital.

“The truth,” I replied, “We can leave you alone with her, if you prefer.”

“Of course we will,” Oliver chimed in, “Your private life should stay private.”

“But I don’t want to be alone and I’ve got nothing to hide. I haven’t had sex in ages, and the last time was so long ago I can barely remember if I topped or bottomed.”

He turned around to look at me and burst into laughter.

“You should see your face!” he gasped. “Okay, yes, I’ve never topped.”

Oliver groaned, “God’s sakes.”

“What, just because I used to admire your ass it didn’t mean that I wanted to,” he started and then stopped. “I’m sorry, it’s because I’m nervous. It gives me verbal diarrhoea. Better than the other type though. See? I can’t help it.”

By then I was giggling and so was Rico. Oliver had lit a cigarette and was puffing on it while trying to blow the smoke out of the open window.

“You okay?” I asked him.

“Fine,” he replied.

We listened to the radio and didn’t talk again until we reached Villa Giulia.

 

Rico had to use the toilet as soon as we entered the clinic, leaving the two of us alone.

“Are you upset because we were laughing? We weren’t making fun of you,” I said.

“I’m not upset.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m not used to-- it’s not easy to be so open, all of a sudden. Rico and I were never intimate the way you two are. And you’ve barely met him. He must have felt that I was keeping him at arm’s length.”

I squeezed his arm to reassure him.

“He adores you, Oliver. And why shouldn’t he? You have made him feel welcome and cared for. He never expected you to be anything other than what you are.”

“I made him share my frozen life,” he said, “It wasn’t fair on him.”

“You were giving him what you could and I believe that it was what he needed too. Perhaps he was ready for change but so were you.”

“Elio Perlman, the wind of change,” he smiled.

“And the only person allowed to hit this,” I said, touching his backside.

He rolled his eyes, “An obsession, that’s what it is.”

 

 

I was slightly anaemic and suffered from vitamin D deficiency. As for the HIV assay, the results had been the same.

“I’m certain that it’s because of these issues, which can be easily remedied by implementing changes in your diet and lifestyle,” explained Doctor Vergani. She was smiling and looked unconcerned.

We agreed that I’d see her again in June for the confirmatory tests.

Oliver checked the prescription she had given me. “What about physical activity?” he asked, “I imagine he needs to take it easy for a while.”

“On the contrary,” she replied, “Fewer white nights and parties and more walks in the park would do him a world of good. Swimming is beneficial too and so is sunbathing, taking the requisite precautions, of course.”

 

Rico was sitting outside Vergani’s office, filling in the usual form.

He was even more nervous and smiled wryly when he saw us.

“I hope that paperwork is all in order,” he said, indicating the thick brown folder in his lap.

“I’ve double checked everything,” Oliver replied, “I promise you that nothing is missing.”

At once, Rico’s tension dissipated. He trusted Oliver, as he knew that despite everything – the fake name and the drug dealing – he was a man of his word.

The interview was long and meticulous. After that, Rico was taken to another room for a thorough check-up. Since that would last a while, Oliver and I went to the canteen.

“I was thinking,” Oliver said, as we sipped our pineapple juice, “Since you need to swim and sunbathe, we could go to Ostia every week-end.”

“The nudist beach again?” I joked. “And what was that about asking whether I should rest?”

“Don’t want you to overdo it.”

“If you don’t want me to suck your dick, you just have to say it.”

He flushed a pleasant shade of rose.

“That mouth of yours,” he chided.

“What, there’s no-one around.”

“That’s not the issue.”

I batted my lashes at him and licked the rim of the glass.

“Is this the problem?”

He squirmed in his seat, probably recalling what had happened the night before; and the one before that.

“There will be payback, I hope you realise that,” he murmured.

“I only wish we didn’t have to wait so long.”

Oliver’s expression softened.

“Your health is the most important thing to me.”

“But after we get the all-clear, we will, you know, without condoms?”

He hesitated.

“We’ll discuss this at home,” he replied.

“I want to be with you only,” I said.

Oliver let out an exasperated sigh, “You’ll make me lose my fucking mind.”

“I thought I’d already done that.”

He didn’t deny it.

 

Rico signed all the paperwork,which Oliver inspected closely as though he were a lawyer examining a deed.

The dosage was to be recalibrated at the end of every week and he was asked to follow a strict diet to counteract the probable side effects, which included vomiting, nausea, skin rashes and dizziness.

“We advise you check into the hospital for the first week of treatment,” Vergani said. “It’s not compulsory, but we’d prefer to monitor your body’s response to the drug. Your immune system might react in ways that require an immediate intervention.”

Oliver wasn’t happy, but Rico was evidently relieved.

“Could they come and visit me?” he asked the doctor.

“Of course,” she replied. “You are not a prisoner here, but a very valued guest.”

He frowned. “But what about the costs?” he enquired.

She smiled brightly. “This is all paid for by the research funding. What you are doing is very important, so please don’t worry about anything but your health and well-being.”

It was decided that Rico would return later that day and sleep at Villa Giulia.

 

 

Back home, I left Oliver and Rico alone to discuss what had transpired at the clinic. I had a problem of my own to deal with: after everything that had happened, I still hadn’t told my parents that I was back together with Oliver.

I went into the bedroom and locked the door.

It was Mafalda who answered.

“It’s Elio. Yes, and you? No, I swear, well, a bit maybe, but I’m eating loads of vegetables. Is papà there? Yes, please. And say hi to Anchise for me.”

She’d told me that my father had invited an Austrian philosopher and his wife to dinner.

“Papà, so tell me: what are Mr and Mrs Wittgenstein like?”

I heard him laugh.

“Don’t try to change the subject, you little scamp. Your mother is worried sick: where have you been? If you’ve met someone, you know you can always talk to us.”


	37. Matchmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio and Oliver talk to the Perlmans
> 
> Beware the chapters that begin with fluff...
> 
> Elio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your comments. Without your kind feedback it would not be the same...

I had intended to tell my parents everything, but my dad’s questions had awakened my innermost contrarian.

“I was away for a few days,” I said, “Which was why I didn’t answer the phone. I was staying with some friends.”

He was silent for a moment, as though he’d been distracted or perhaps had been assessing the truthfulness of my statement.

“How’s Manuela?” 

“She’s great,” I replied. “We have been to the cinema together: Losey’s Accident.”

“Pinter’s sharp gaze is always on the edge of cruelty,” he noted, “Male brutality.”

I agreed that it had been uncomfortable at times.

“What else have you been doing aside from avoiding us and watching art-house movies?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” I exclaimed.

“You are doing it as we speak,” he insisted, laughter in his voice, “Evasive as a politician.”

I drew a deep breath.

“I have used your American Express to pay for HIV testing at a Parioli clinic,” I blurted out.

“Okay,” he said, quietly, “I assume that there is a reason and that you are going to tell me what it is.”

“There’s this guy, he thought he was ill, maybe, but I was sure he wasn’t. He wouldn’t get tested, doesn’t trust doctors, but I found this AIDS researcher and I thought that she would convince him. And I was due a test too, so why not kill two birds with one stone, right?”

“Hmm, you’re not usually that patient, so it must be a special guy.”

My hackles were up.

“I’m patient when I need to be,” I argued.

“Name one instance,” he insisted.

I searched my mind and found it empty.

“I have only seen you being patient with one person,” he said, “Shall I tell you his name?”

“Fine, fine, yes, it’s Oliver,” I was nearly shouting, “I mean, it was Oliver, back then.”  
“And now, who is this special guy?”

“Oliver,” I whispered, “Who else could it be?”

Dad chuckled and then there was a noise which suggested that someone was trying to butt in.

“ _Piccino_ ,” maman’s voice interjected, “Is that true; is Oliver there with you?”

“No,” I replied, “But thanks for finding him a job. I am very grateful.”

She assumed I was being sarcastic and started explaining her motives.

“He wasn’t going to teach and he wasn’t writing his own book,” she said, “I didn’t want him to waste his talents. And we’d agreed you didn’t want to speak of him. Rome is not a small town like Crema, so I imagined--”

I interrupted her, “I meant what I said: you have done him a great favour and I am thankful that you did.”

“He sounded very sad, not the Oliver I remembered.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“Things have changed, but he’s better now. More like his old self.”

“And you, what are you feeling?”

It was impossible to lie to her. I bit the inside of my cheek and cleared my throat.

“Same as I always have: I love him and I want him to be happy.”

“But you said he’s not there with you.”

I smiled widely as thought she could see me, and maybe she could.

“He’s in the other room,” I replied, “We live together.”

She and my dad confabulated for a few seconds, while Oliver tried to enter the bedroom.

“Why is the door locked?” he asked, “Are you alright?”

I put the handset down and let him in.

“I’m talking to my parents,” I murmured.

“If you want to be alone,” he said, but I grabbed his arm to keep him there.

“Talk to them,” I urged him.

“What, no, no, I haven’t, what do I say?”

I handed him the phone.

“Pronto? Yes, it’s Oliver,” he said, glaring at me. “Professor Perlman, it’s a pleasure for me too.”

 

“I can’t believe that you ambushed me like that.”

Oliver was pacing the bedroom while I lay down on the mattress and waited for him to calm down.

“It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Don’t try to placate me, you little schemer.”

“Maybe that’s what I am,” I said, sliding a hand down my pants, “Do you know that Richelieu had his own right-hand man and that since he was a friar who wore grey robes he was the originator of the term grey eminence?”

“What are you talking about?”

His glare turned to daggers.

“I was comparing myself to Père Joseph, since Richelieu seemed a bit too much, considering I’m only at the start of my career. Walk before you run, that’s my motto.”

Before I could say another word, he was on top of me and was tickling me everywhere.  I did my best to fight back but I soon raised the white flag.

“I apologise unreservedly and promise I will never do it again,” I croaked.

“Until next time,” he countered, laughing.

“Only if necessary,” I said, “And for your own good.”

He accepted my caveat and rolled off me, to the side.

“Your mother is just like you,” he said, smiling, “She would have contrived that we met again if it hadn’t happened by chance.”

“They love you,” I stated, because it was the truth. “I told _papà_ about Villa Giulia.”

“What did he say?”

“He only wanted to know about this special guy.”

“Oh god,” he groaned, “He’d already guessed, hadn’t he?”

I scooted closer and rested my head on his chest.

“Must have put two and two together when I went off the radar,” I replied.

His hand was in my hair, stroking it lightly.

“Pro mentioned the summer holidays,” he went on, “Would you like to go home?”

“We can’t leave Rico here.”

“And apart from that?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. I was unsure how to explain that returning there would be a bit like retracing our steps; that perhaps it was too soon and that I needed more time alone with him, being an adult with him; his man rather than my parents’ son.

“We’ll see,” he said, “They might come here to visit.”

“As long as it isn’t in June,” I argued, “After we get the go-ahead, I’ll want my pound of flesh.”

“Romancing me again, aren’t you?”

I palmed his crotch.

“I’ll write you a sonnet, but I gotta have this first.”

“You are not alone in wanting that.”

He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed.

 

Rico insisted Oliver and I went back home.

“I won’t get the meds until tomorrow,” he said, “I have this wonderful room with TV and radio.”

There was a spare bed, and I suggested I could sleep there, but he wouldn’t let me.

Amalia had been given the week off, but she was going to visit Rico every afternoon, she’d said. It’d give her an excuse to take the 2CV for a spin.

Reluctantly, we left; as we did, a male nurse went in to check on Rico.

He was tall, well-built and looked about thirty.

“We left him in good company,” I said.

“You noticed him, uh?” Oliver joked. “That’s your type.”

“Rico’s, not mine,” I countered. “But I love playing match-maker.”

“You tried to set me up with Chiara.”

His eyes were sparkling with amusement.

“I did no such thing,” I pouted, “And you know it.”

“It seemed that way, at the time.”

And it had hurt: he didn’t say it, but I could read it on his face.

 

 

We were alone but I did not feel like making love. I suggested typing Oliver’s translation.

“If you want to,” he said, “I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

I worked for an hour and when I entered the bedroom, I found Oliver reading Austen’s Emma.

“Idiot,” I said, planting my foot on his thigh. He trapped it with his hand and massaged the heel.

“Worst matchmaker ever, after you,” he smirked. “How many people did you pair me with?”

“Let’s see,” I started counting on my fingers, “There was Chiara, my aunt, the two Belgian sisters at the villa, the Moreschi girls--”

“And not even one man?”

I shook my head.

My toes brushed against the hem of his shorts.

“I was jealous of the other men, but not of the women. Not until I realised that I didn’t want to be you.”

He looked me straight in the eye.

“And who did you want to be?”

“Myself,” I replied, “Not being you, but doing you.”

I straddled him and sat on his lap. He closed the book and placed it on the rug.

“I’m glad you came to that conclusion,” he murmured, as he stroked my cheek, “and stayed as you are.”

He wrapped his hand around my neck and pulled me down for a kiss; his tongue in my mouth, his stubble grazing my skin, the gentle caress of his breath: every single part of him was dear to me, memorable and irreplaceable.

Rico’s absence and reason behind it made us cling to one another with a passion for once devoid of sexuality:  we were blood and bone, heart and soul, two and the same.

 

In the days that followed, Rico had ups and downs, and some of the latter truly terrified me. His fever spiked to the verge of delirium and he would not recognise us. The doctor suggested we called Rico’s family, but we were reluctant to go against his wishes. Thankfully, they found the cause – an allergic reaction – and treated it with steroids. Towards the end of the week, his condition became more stable and his bouts of sickness decreased.

They advised that he should stay in the clinic for another seven days at least and he agreed that it was the best course of action.

Sabino had begun to visit and he was bringing his friends over, some of whom they had met outside Renato’s house. When they started swapping anecdotes about the singer’s life, his clothes and his songs, nothing could have stemmed the flow of incessant gossip. They would have played the music too but luckily there was no stereo or cassette player.

 

One evening in April, I was studying and practising in the piano room when the phone rang. Oliver was out, so I let it go to answering machine. Ten minutes later it was ringing again. Huffing and puffing, I padded to the living room.

It was Nash.

“Is Oliver there?” he asked, without preamble.

“No, he’s running some errands.”

In truth, I had no idea where he was since he’d been gone already when I’d returned from the Conservatory.

“He wasn’t going to Testaccio by any chance?”

A shiver went through me.

“No, not since that night, I think, why?”

“The Polizia have raided the Luxuria, La Serpe Rossa and the Slaughterhouse. They found a disused warehouse at Magliana, where the drugs were being cut and packed. They arrested a number of people, but they didn’t go down quietly. There was a fight: first the knives came out and then shots were fired. The last I’ve heard, at least two men had died. In the chaos, some have managed to escape. Stay safe until Oliver returns.”

I was shaking from head to toe, unable to keep my teeth from chattering. Oliver had promised to tell me what he’d decided about Enzo and the apartment we were still living in, but he was waiting for something to happen. I wondered if he knew and had gone to warn his acquaintances. What if he had? He could be hurt or worse. I stifled a cry, biting my lips

“But what will I do, if he doesn’t return? I don’t know where to go, who to call,” I was nearly hysterical, “What if he’s been wounded and is hiding somewhere, bleeding to death?”

“Elio, calm down,” Nash spoke calmly. “What are the odds that he was there at all?  Slim to none. If he said that he was done, you should believe him.”

“I have to go out, I can’t stay here,” I said.

“I’m not far from Balduina,” he replied, “I could be there in ten minutes.”

For a second I wondered how he knew then I recalled he’d been the one to provide me with Kurt’s address.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

I hoped against hope that Oliver would return before Nash arrived, but my wishes went unheard.


	38. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about deleting this chapter, but I was having a moment.
> 
> Thanks to those of you who provided support: you know who you are and I am really grateful...
> 
> Elio's POV

 

 

Nash arrived with the rain.

The hot and muggy weather had produced a thunderstorm and the first fat raindrops caught me unawares as I was waiting on the side-walk. I mistook them for tears.

I opened the car door and got in.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” he said, frowning at me. “We don’t know where to look for him and he might phone you.”

“What’s your suggestion?”

“We go back upstairs and discuss the situation. I made another call after I talked to you and there are things--” he stopped.

“What?” I shouted, “Is he, has he, what the fuck are you hiding from me?”

“I need a drink,” he replied, “Let me park the car then we’ll go back upstairs and have a civilised chat.”

“Okay,” I said, clenching my teeth. A sudden discharge of electricity sparked across the sky followed by the distant roar of thunder. “I’ll open the garage door.”

When Oliver returned, he’d be upset at finding another car occupying his space, but I didn’t care. That’d teach him.

 

I opened a bottle of white wine and poured Nash a glass.

He sat at the kitchen table and drank half of it in one gulp. After that, he lit a cigarette and asked for an ashtray. We would have been in the dark if it hadn’t been for the light bulb above the sink. He looked young and troubled in that lemony glow.

“Franz is dead,” he said, blowing out two streams of smoke.

Who, I was about to say. But my brain knew and so did my heart, which was slamming against my ribcage.

“Killed by the cops?”

“Hard to say,” he replied, “The point is that they went for him. They knew where to find him at that specific time. It may be coincidence; after all, everybody knew that he was the top coke dealer. And Oliver wasn’t the only one bearing a grudge; far from it, judging by what I’ve heard.”

I took a swig from the bottle and didn’t bother to wipe my mouth.

“Did you hear from Oliver after that day?”

He shook his head.

“I thought about getting in touch, but I decided against it.”

“Get in touch, why?”

“To let him know what was going on. But since he said he was done with it, why upset the apple cart?”

I had begged Oliver to leave Franz alone, but what if he hadn’t listened?

“Was Oliver there?”

Nash offered me one of his cigarettes and I lit it from his.

“I didn’t want to ask because that would have put his name out there, you see? You can always find someone who’d swear they’d seen him if his name was mentioned.”

“What do you think happened?”

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say that Oliver got tipped that the Polizia were going to raid the Luxuria. He knew where and when, so he set Franz up. Whether he killed him or not, you tell me. You know him and I don’t.”

I could imagine Oliver murdering someone in self-defence or in order to protect me, but not in cold blood.

“No, I don’t think he would. Franz may have attacked him, in which case, maybe.” I pulled at my hair, “But why would he go to Testaccio if he knew the cops were going to be there too? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Unless he’s turned whistleblower and was sure they wouldn’t touch him.”

That was plausible enough: it was a way out which would allow him to be at peace with his conscience. It still didn’t explain why he had disappeared.

We drank the rest of the bottle and I opened another one.

The rain was pelting down so I went round the apartment and shut all the windows. I swayed a little, but the alcohol had dulled the anxiety.

Nash followed me to the living room, carrying the ashtray with him. He sat on the couch and admired his surroundings.

“Nice,” he said, “Would need some remodelling, but the space is amazing. Is it Oliver’s?”

I laughed, bitterly.

“It owns him,” I replied.

 

The storm was petering out when the phone rang.

I grabbed the receiver and shouted “Pronto?” expecting Oliver’s voice at the other end. Once again, I was to be disappointed.

“Elio?” the man asked.

“Who is it?”

“We met at San Lorenzo, but maybe you don’t remember me. Kurt is here with me.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“Let me talk to him,” I said.

“Impossible,” he replied, “He’s out of it, but when he wakes up, he’ll be alright.”

“Out of what? What’s happened to him?” I shouted.

“He’s okay,” he replied, “But I suppose you’d like to come here and see for yourself.”  
Doc gave me his address and told me that he’d be waiting for me.

 

The drive to Garbatella was the longest journey I’d ever had to endure. The traffic lights seemed to mock me and turn red the moment we approached them.

“At least he’s not in jail,” Nash had said, trying to calm me down. I had scowled at him and he’d not uttered another word.

 

What I noticed first was the dried blood on Doc’s shirt. He’d washed his hands, but hadn’t changed his clothes.

I let him talk to Nash and darted into the spare bedroom: on the bed was Oliver; he was pale and his eyes were shut. His left arm was bandaged but there was no other visible damage.

I kneeled down and listened to his heartbeat: it was faint but regular. I kissed his lips, softly, tasting blood and salt.

This time it wasn’t the rain.

 

Nash and Doc were smoking and drinking black coffee.

“How is he?” Nash enquired.

“You tell me,” I replied, staring at the other man.

“Like I was saying to your friend here, Kurt knocked at my door and passed out as soon as I let him in. I tended to his wound and he woke up because of the pain. I gave him something to drink, he asked me to phone you and he fainted again.”

“You don’t know what happened?”

I made it clear that I didn’t believe him, but it didn’t affect his response.

“Look, because of what I do, I have learned to keep my mouth shut. Kurt is always trying to save the world, but I have no such ambition.”

“What about the wound?” I asked.

“He got stabbed, but luckily they didn’t nick an artery.”

I felt the room swirl around me. Nash caught me just in time.

 

“I want to stay here with Oliver,” I said, when I reopened my eyes. “That’s his real name, by the way, so get used to it.”

He chuckled and threw his cigarette butt inside a coffee mug.

“I don’t have to,” he replied, “I thought I’d never see him again.”

“And Tony, have you seen him?”

His eyes widened.

“Once or twice,” he replied, “But he won’t disturb you, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” I shot back. 

Nash announced that he was going home and would come back in the morning.

I hugged him and couldn’t repress a yawn.

 

Later, Doc handed me a spare toothbrush and a clean towel. I had barely the energy to clean my teeth, piss and wash my hands before I staggered on to the bed next to Oliver. I turned towards him and kissed his cheek and his neck.

“I love you so much,” I whispered.

All the anger I had felt before had dissipated and had left behind pure terror: a few centimetres and Oliver might have bled to death. I would have lost him and myself with him. I could have been another Elio, maybe even a dozen different versions of myself, but I would have not been whole again.

Lying by his side, I caressed his uninjured arm and waited until my heart was no longer thrumming in my ears. I fell asleep with my mouth pressed to Oliver’s shoulder.

 

The following day, the “ _retata al Testaccio_ ” was everywhere. True to his word, Nash came back early in the morning with an armful of newspapers. _Il Messaggero_ had photos of the Luxuria and of handcuffed men all over its front page.

“No mentions of Kurt or Oliver,” he said, “But there’s quite a lot about Franz’s death. There are contradicting reports: one says that it was a cop that shot him, another that it was a stray bullet and that Franz was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What do you think?”

Doc brought us coffee and a carton of orange juice. He sat down and yawned, pawing at his stubbly jowls and leafing through _La Repubblica_ until he found the sports pages. He was pointedly ignoring our discussion.

“I don’t believe Franz’s death was accidental, that’s for sure,” Nash replied.

I was debating whether to go back to the bedroom when Oliver padded in.

“What the hell’s going on?” he croaked, making Doc laugh uproariously.

He went up to him before I could move, and put a hand on his forehead to check his temperature. Oliver frowned but didn’t push him away.

“Not too high,” the man announced, “Nothing that a couple of aspirins won’t cure. And I gave you the tetanus jab last night, just to be on the safe side.”

I helped him to the bathroom and pulled his shorts down for him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at the porcelain bowl as though it held all the answers.

“You fucking should be,” I said, stroking his back.

While he pissed, I found a spare toothbrush and squeezed some Colgate on to it.

“Why did you go there last night of all nights? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I wasn’t there,” he replied, “Not exactly.”

“Do not speak in riddles or I swear I will kick your ass.”

He chuckled and soon after grimaced in pain. I made him sit on the edge of the bathtub so that he could brush his teeth without having to stand.

After he was done, I washed his face and neck.

“I want to go home,” he said, meeting my gaze in the mirror.

I nodded and felt like I’d suddenly grown older, like Oliver and I had switched sides and I was the adult taking care of a wayward boy.

 

Nash would have driven us home, but I wanted to be alone with Oliver. We found the keys of the Escort and Doc gave us a plastic bag full of painkillers and antibiotics. Before we left, he cleaned the wound and changed the dressing. He showed me what to do and what to avoid. The sutures would come off in a couple of weeks and the worst of the pain would subside within a few days. There had been no nerve damage and the shoulder joint mobility wasn’t affected: all in all, he’d been incredibly lucky.

After two cups of coffee, Oliver was ready to go.

Nash accompanied us to the car, which was parked two hundred metres down the road.

“I’ll phone you tonight,” I said, “And we’ll take you out for drinks when this is over.”

He and Oliver shook hands.

“Thanks for being there for Elio,” Oliver muttered. I could tell that he was embarrassed. Nash told him that he’d done what any friend would do: that made Oliver even more uncomfortable.

 

The driver’s seat was stained with blood, my boyfriend’s blood.

I ignored the bile that surged up my throat and made sure Oliver was belted in.

He wanted to smoke; I lit one of my Lido and slid it between his lips.

“You are a menace, that’s what you are,” I hissed, as I turned the ignition key. “I should lock you inside the house until you stop lying to me.”

“I never lied to you.”

“Don’t you dare,” I spat out, “Omitting the truth is the same as lying.”

“You don’t understand,” he had the nerve to say, “I couldn’t, I just couldn’t let him, I could not!”

“Maybe I would understand if you talked to me,” I shouted. “What is that you couldn’t do?”

He sucked on the cigarette and looked out of the window.

“Let him get away with hurting you.”


	39. Jekyll & Hyde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver tells his story and Elio reads him the riot act...
> 
> Stuff gets solved and the future is not so far away.
> 
> Elio's POV

 

I was too angry to talk while I was driving; I didn’t want to risk crashing the car.

Oliver was woozy from the pain and the meds he’d been given, so he fell asleep mid-journey. I shot him a glance from time to time and wondered about all the dangers he’d incurred which could have cost him his freedom, his sanity, his life. There was a chance that the cops might be looking for him and an even bigger one that the criminals he’d worked for might pay him an unfriendly visit.

I thanked the heavens that Sabino was with Rico at the clinic, because I couldn’t face the prospect of having to put on a brave face when I felt so utterly at odds with the world.

 

“Wake up, we are home.”  
I gently shook Oliver awake and he emitted a little grunt that made me smile. I didn’t do it overtly, not wishing to give him the impression that fences had already been mended. It hurt me to know that he was suffering, but couldn’t yet forget, or forgive, the terror he’d inflicted on me.

We trudged out of the elevator and into the apartment. It smelled musty and smoky, like a dilapidated gentlemen’s club. I opened the French window and stepped onto the balcony; there were hardly any traces of the fierce storm that had raged the night before: only a shallow pool of water underneath one of the deck chairs.

Oliver came up behind me but didn’t touch me.

“I’ll sit in the sun for a while,” he said.

“Are you cold?” I asked, “I’ll get you a sweater.”

“No need,” he replied, gingerly sitting down on the lounger.  Once he was stretched out, I removed his shoes.

“I’ll get you something to drink. Doc said you have to stay hydrated.”

He tried to grab my arm but couldn’t quite reach it.

“Sit for a second,” he said.

“If you insist,” was my tight-lipped answer. I fished out my Lidos, but didn’t feel like smoking.

“I did not kill him,” Oliver whispered, after a short silence. “Nor was it an accident that he died,” he added, more forcefully.

“Riddles again,” I gritted out.

He cast me a pleading glance. I let him continue.

“When I told you that I was done with Kurt’s life, I meant it. You have to believe that,” he said. I huffed and shook my head.

“You have to understand that some things can never be swept under the carpet. You may walk away, but the slate won’t be wiped clean.”

“I can do without the platitudes,” I muttered. At that, he smiled and I did too, and I knew he had me, because I couldn’t stay mad at him: no matter what he’d done, as long as he was faithful, I’d always forgive him. I realised that I’d rather he’d killed a man than slept with him. We were as bad as each other.

I took his hand and held it between both of mine.

“I was afraid the Polizia would come after me,” he went on, “If they were about to make dozens of arrests, chances were they’d get their hands on someone who bore a grudge and I couldn’t count on my fake name being enough to protect me. Besides, I didn’t want you to be involved.”

I opened my mouth, but he continued before I could speak.

“And there was the matter of Franz,” he spat out the man’s name. “Not only had he tried to rape you, but he was likely to do it to other defenceless boys, and I couldn’t just let it happen.”

“Did you blow the whistle on him?”

“I didn’t have to,” he replied, “Somebody else was looking for him. Long story short, they wanted him dead but didn’t want the murder to cause a stir. Best thing was to make it happen while the cops were there so that they’d get the blame.”

“And you had to be on the scene, why?”

He was silent for a long while and I didn’t pressure him.

“Please don’t be too upset with me,” he begged. “I’m not a good man, but I love you and I want us to be together. If you leave me because of this, I won’t-”

I squeezed his hand, hard enough to make him wince.

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you, Oliver?” I hissed. “I’m not ever leaving you, not unless you asked me to, and even in that case only if you had fallen for somebody else.”

He snorted, “We are two of a kind.”

“Yes, but I will kick your ass if you don’t tell me why the hell you got stabbed.”

He drew a deep breath.

“That was the price to pay,” he murmured, “Setting Franz up, I mean. A friend of Lulu’s served as bait together with a suitcase full of money. The boy distracted him, the cops arrived: the game was up.”

I still didn’t understand.

“And you didn’t shoot him?”

“One of Enzo’s men did, I guess. I got stabbed as I made my way out of the fire exit at the back.”

“Wait, you did that for Enzo and he tried to get you killed?”

He shook his head.

“No, I saw who it was. Promise me you won’t--”

I was close to screaming.

“Tell me who the fuck it was or I swear to god I will never let you out of this house again,” I said, staring him straight in the eye.

“It was Tony,” he replied, “I’m sure he was high.”

The blood shot to my head.

“That sneaky bastard,” I spat, “Why should he get away with it? He could have killed you!”

“He won’t, he didn’t. The cops got him just as I drove past the slaughterhouse.”

“How apt,” I said, “I hope he rots in prison.” I didn’t mean it, but I was too furious to make allowances for a murderous junkie, no matter how young he was.

“And the Polizia, won’t they look for you?”

“Enzo was adamant that they won’t,” he replied, “He’s done with Rome too, at least for a while. This apartment,” he cleared his throat, “he no longer wants it.”

The man I loved was embroiled in the murder of a rapist slash pusher and all I could think of was Tony. He was so obsessed with Kurt that he’d tried to kill him. He was me, if I had gone to the dark side; the Hyde to my Jekyll. What if Oliver had chosen him, would I have gone mad and tried to destroy him?

I didn’t think so, because I loved him more than I loved myself. But was I truly certain? There was always a part of me that kicked against the boundaries and wasn’t afraid of the consequences. Oliver had said that he wasn’t a good man. Neither was I.

I watched Oliver as he slept and wiped the sweat from his forehead. I put the moist finger inside my mouth and sucked on it.

 

Sabino had called to tell me that Rico was doing better. He’d had a fever, but for once his digestive system hadn’t been affected. Baby steps, Vergani had said, but Rico’s body was reacting positively, getting stronger every day. His immune system was no longer as debilitated and his hair was thicker and less brittle.

 

While Oliver was resting, I prepared a tuna salad and a cheese omelette. I decided that I’d wait for him to wake up and type more pages of his translation. I wondered what he would do after this book was done. Would he want to go back to teaching or writing? I had suggested it, but I had the impression that he wasn’t taking me seriously.  I was thoroughly immersed in my task when he called for me.

“What is it?” I asked, as I approached the balcony.

“Nothing,” he replied, “Just a bad dream. Maybe the sun’s too strong.”

He was flushed and his lips were chapped.

“Lunch, bed or lunch in bed?”

“Would it be too decadent?” he smiled tentatively.

“Amalia is not here and what she can’t see won’t hurt her,” I said.

 

Oliver’s appetite hadn’t suffered and he was more than usually thirsty. We ate in silence, our backs against the wall. I had cut the omelette for him, but luckily he was not left-handed so he could manage fairly well. Once we were done, I gave him the pills that Doc had prescribed. He wasn’t keen on taking too many, but didn’t have the heart to contradict me, not after what he’d done.

We were drinking coffee when he spoke of it again.

“What should we do with this apartment?” he asked.

“I want us to live elsewhere, but perhaps not until we know more about Rico’s health,” I replied.

He frowned. “You are still paying the rent of your place in Trastevere.”

“It’s paid in advance until the summer.”

I could tell that he had been concocting some plan and I wanted to nip that in the bud.

“You better tell me what’s on your mind,” I warned him. “No more secrets or you’ll find out what Mr Hyde looks like.”

“What?” he chuckled, “Are you threatening me with unspeakable evil if I don’t submit to you?”

“I was only talking about honesty, but your option works too.”

I took the empty cup from him and set it down on the floor alongside mine. He was bare-chested and his hair was matted with perspiration. I felt much the same sort of drowsiness which had possessed me during those long summer afternoons of three years ago. Back then I had spent my siestas daydreaming of Oliver, but now he was here with me. I placed my hand on his sternum and started to massage it with circular motions. I raised my gaze and met Oliver’s clouded eyes.

“So tell me,” I murmured.

“I forgot what I meant to say,” he replied, softly.

I stopped moving.

“Please,” he whispered, and I flicked at his nipple with the tip of my tongue.

“Speak,” I insisted. He moaned and tried to push my head down, but I did not give way.

“The commune can’t survive for long,” he said, after a short interval. “The building is unsafe for habitation.”

I caught his drift.

“This apartment is large enough already and the living room could be turned into a couple of bedrooms,” I said. “Besides, it would be the perfect karmic ending: the home of a drug dealer becoming a rehab centre for addicts.”

He smiled. “My clever boyfriend,” he husked.

“Not clever enough to realise you were lying to him,” I argued, “I’m going to watch you very closely from now on.”

“Oh?”

I palmed his crotch, feeling it harden in my grasp. I chewed the inside of my lips and tried to calm down. I spoke only when I was certain my voice wouldn’t break.

“In less than three months I will have you entirely and I don’t want you to get into trouble. If you lie to me again, there will be consequences.”

“Such as?”

His cock was twitching and I wanted very much to taste it.

“I won’t withdraw sex, because I’d be punishing myself too. But I won’t let you blow me for a month, when the time comes.”

He whimpered, and I did too, at the thought of his mouth on me.

“Are white lies allowed?”

“I’d rather you didn’t lie at all. I can take criticism and I don’t want you to treat me like a spoilt kid. You underestimate me, you know?”

“No, I don’t,” he bit back.

“You believed I’d be disgusted at what you did, that it would be one step too far. I warned you several times already: I am no angel. I understand revenge and retribution and I will never judge you for what you chose to do. The only thing I ask you is that you share everything with me. I can be your partner in crime, if you let me.”

“Not literally,” he joked.

“Only because you are done with it, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“Promise me and this time you better mean it.”

“I promise you and I mean it,” he replied.

I leaned closer and kissed his lips. I was careful not to jostle his injured arm, and it excited me that he let me be in charge of his pleasure.

We made out for a while, and I let him believe it was all that he was going to get. My hand was off his dick and rested chastely on his neck. When I deemed that he was no longer expecting action, I shoved down his shorts and took his semi-hard cock in my mouth.

“Fuck, yes,” he shouted, and I growled deep inside my throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: June is just around the corner....so be prepared for a smut-fest from beginning to end.


	40. June - part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The massive amount of smut requires more than one chapter lmao
> 
> The POVs alternate, starting with Oliver's
> 
> Enjoy and don't ever say that Mondays can't be fun...

 

Elio had been growing more beautiful by the day: the diet to cure his anaemia had made his skin glow to the point of translucence and his curls shinier and fuller.

Aside from a tiny scar, the wound on my arm was a distant memory as was Kurt’s sordid and solitary life.

Rico’s therapy had worked with all the caveats of a treatment still in its infancy: there were days when he couldn’t keep anything down and others when only liquid foods would be tolerated. But there were others, and they were becoming more frequent, when he was capable of working a shift at the market stall and go out on a date in the evening. He had a boyfriend, an HIV-positive AZT-patient he’d met at the clinic; his name was Alessio and he was a florist. Amalia approved of him because he was always bringing her bunches of her favourite flower, the calla lily. He was also the reason why our place smelled of jasmine and gardenias.

We were still living in Enzo’s apartment, but Rico had moved out and was shacked up with Alessio in a rented garret near Porta Portese. Amalia was taking care of them, since – she said – they were still babies and wouldn’t know how to cook an egg or sew a button.

As I had predicted the building in San Lorenzo was going be bulldozed in September and we had agreed to spend the summer turning our home into a rehab centre. Nash had written an article about the lack of state-funded support systems for people at the fringes of society and it had attracted the attention of charity organisations, so we were hoping to get some money and qualified help.

 

Elio and I were happy, like only two people who are madly in love and have been given a second chance can be happy.

I was still trying to find out what I wanted to do with my future, but in the meantime I had finished my translation and had been assigned another job by the same publisher. I suspected Annella had been involved, but I didn’t mention it to her or to her son. The latter, my boyfriend, was doing marvellously at Santa Cecilia, despite the distractions and his constant arguments with Sabino, which I suspected were their way to be affectionate without having to say it out loud.

 

The attraction between us showed no sign of abating; in fact, it was increasing in intensity. Sexual desire would sneak up on us at the most inopportune moments: while I was cooking or while he was in the midst of a composition.

 

And now was the afternoon before the fateful day.

The last week, by mutual and unspoken consent, we’d become close to celibate: we made out and caressed each other, but we never went further.

I was going insane and had decided to go to the gym to blow off some steam. It had the opposite effect and I returned home without taking a shower; my blood was up and parading naked in front of other men would have provoked an arousal which I wouldn’t have been able to assuage. It was stupid, I was aware of that, but Elio was worthy of any sacrifice, even the most outlandish.

 

I opened the door and my jaw nearly hit the floor.

There was a pile of cushions spread out on the living room parquet, covered by a large beach towel. Lying on top of it was Elio, naked, slowly pulling at his erect prick. He’d heard the jangle of the keys, so he’d sat up and gazed, hooded-eyed, in my direction. In his free hand was a printed piece of paper.

“One hundred per cent,” he said.

I felt oddly calm, like at the centre of a storm. I threw my gym bag on a chair, removed my t-shirt and kicked off my shoes.

“No touching,” I told him in a commanding tone, and he obeyed.

I strode up to him, kneeled in front of him and without giving him time to brace himself, swallowed him down to the hilt. For a while, there was nothing but the warmth and taste of him, the tickle of his wiry pubes, the rippling of his abdominal muscles and the undulations of his body. I held him by the hips and he yanked my hair, while shamelessly spreading his thighs and thrusting his pelvis at me. I wanted him to come inside my mouth, but he seemed to have other ideas for he pulled me up by the scruff of my neck. A thread of saliva connected us and the certainty that I would die if he didn’t let me suck him dry.

“What?” I panted.

“Me too,” he said, thickly, “Like the first time.”

His chest was bright red and there were two crimson spots on his cheeks. There was no air conditioning yet, only an old-fashioned fan, so we were both dripping with sweat.

“I need a shower,” I replied.

He hauled me up to him and slid his tongue in my mouth. He licked his own juices and I vainly tried to follow them down his throat.

“Don’t care,” he muttered when we parted, “Did it on purpose.”

“What?”

“Let you go to the gym so that you’d be like this,” he replied, trailing his palms down my torso. He clutched the Magen David – which I was wearing again – and brought it to his lips.

“You’ll pay for it later,” I said, but he was already undoing the zip of my shorts.

When he scooped my cock out, we both stared at it and moaned: it was purple and leaking. Before Elio could get his hands on it, I undressed and crawled on top of him, upside down. The position was not an easy one for us, but we knew how to make it work. I was straddling his neck and about to resume blowing him, when he forced me down, spread my ass-cheeks and pressed his face between them, lapping at my anus with the broad of his tongue. 

“Jesus,” I screamed.

He mumbled something then went back to devouring every bit of my sanity.

I felt filthy and light-headed, but I was past caring. We went at it as though we wished to possess each other’s souls, as if that sensual ouroboros could go on for eternity. Unfortunately, it could not, and soon Elio was shooting his salty load with a sharp cry of my name.

 

“You devious little shit,” I said, as I tried to catch my breath.

I had rolled off him on to the cushions and was barely aware that I had not come.

He let out a strangled giggle.

“Wanted to surprise you,” he replied.

I turned the right way up and bit his neck.

“Ouch,” he protested, but turned his head in blatant invitation. I nibbled his collarbone and nuzzled the hollow of his throat.

“Vergani called the other day, but I didn’t want you to be nervous,” he whispered. “You’re more fun when you are angry with me.”

“I’m not angry,” I replied, suckling his Adam’s apple. “But I would have preferred not to stink like a pig during our first time.”

“You smell delicious,” he argued, stroking the back of my head, “Better than the jasmine and the gardenia.”

“Liar,” I snorted, and rubbed my aching cock against his thigh.

He hummed in contentment. “Want that in me,” he murmured.

“You didn’t seem to,” I joked, alluding at the fact that he hadn’t blown me.

“I wouldn’t have been able to stop and I need it up my ass,” he said, with a wicked smile.  His dick hadn’t softened completely and was perking up at record speed.

“Just a quick wash,” I proposed, but Elio would not let me.

“No, no, no,” he whined, “You were all sweaty on our first night, remember?”

I did and he was right. I had spent the entire day outside in the sun and by midnight I was dirty and dishevelled. There hadn’t been enough time to shower, so I had splashed water on may face and washed my hands then gone out on the balcony for a smoke. In truth, I’d not expected Elio to keep his side of the bargain and had been surprised when he had turned up.

“Romantic,” I smiled and he drew me in for a kiss.

 

 

Oliver was mine again.

The memories of the past could be stored away and leafed through only when we’d feel nostalgic about the way we'd been.

This Oliver, the one I was about to make love to, had more scars and fewer certainties, but his vulnerability belonged to me only and I treasured it above any of his former attributes.

He had a way of gazing at me, of smiling, which told the story of the years behind us and of those still to come.

Our relationship wasn’t without frictions and fights: we argued about the silly things – who forgot to pay the phone bill and why the towels were never in their designated places – but I knew he’d always support me and he could count on me without reservations.

One night I’d come home and found him rummaging inside a large box which he kept inside the armoire by the entrance. He’d been looking for his Star of David, which I’d suggested he should start wearing again.

“Changed your mind, have you?” I’d asked, with a smirk.

“It’s gone,” he’d replied, looking bereft.

“Maybe a little sprite found it and hid it somewhere safe,” I’d quipped.

He’d wrestled and tickled me until tears had streamed from my eyes and I’d been out of breath. But he’d thanked me afterwards and I had fastened the chain around his neck with the solemnity of a groom on his wedding day.

I looked at him now, at his sun-kissed skin and golden hair, at his muscled body and luminous eyes, and don’t see the Oliver I first met but the one he'd always been, underneath the polished surface: my man, _pour la vie_.

 

“Come on,” he insisted, licking along the rim of my ear, “I’m all sticky.”

“I like sticky,” I replied, arching my back to show him that I meant it, “I want sticky and dirty and everything else in between.”

I made a “yum” sound and he bit me on the neck.

“Vampire,” I husked “Do it again.”

He did, and I felt my dick swell. I grabbed his ass and kneaded the delicious flesh while his abdomen rubbed against my erection. I knew he was on the verge of losing it, but I was ready for him. I slid my hand underneath the couch and extracted a tube of KY.

“Here,” I whispered, “I’m already wide open.”

He let out a few choice profanities and leaned back to look me in the eye.

“It better not be---” he started. We’d agreed to use no toys until we’d first played with each other for a while.

“Just my fingers,” I replied, “I’m dying here, Oliver,” I whined.

“I’m not sure I’ll last,” he warned, squeezing his cock at the root.

I looked down at it and my mouth filled with spit: I was gonna take it down my throat if he didn’t hurry and get down to business.

“Okay, okay,” he said, getting up on his knees and uncapping the lube. I watched as he squirted a large dollop of it onto the palm of his hand.

“Let me,” I said, and dipped my fingers in it.

“Gently,” he begged.

I held his gaze as I reached past my sac to slick my hole.

“Christ,” he moaned, giving himself a couple of tugs.

We stared at each other, suddenly nonplussed.

“I need you,” I finally whispered, and that did it.

“Stop me if it hurts,” he demanded, and I nodded without any intention of obeying him. I knew the pain would be worth it, because it was him and because it was me.

We were back to our mock-wrestling position and the tip of his cock was nudging my entrance. I closed my eyes in order to savour the sensation of being breached, taken, owned.

“Oh god,” Oliver kept repeating, his voice thick and low. He was half-way in when I realised I couldn’t wait any longer: I dug the heel of my feet into his buttocks and, unable to keep his balance, he sank fully into me.

“Fuck,” he cried out, and I could feel his hammering heartbeat inside of me.

It was painful, no use denying it. It was like being torn apart and my first impulse was to be rid of it; we waited for a few breaths and when I opened my eyes, Oliver was studying me, as though he expected rejection.

I smiled at him and he smiled back.

“Too much?” he enquired.

I shook my head, “Kiss me,” I murmured.

It wasn’t easy but he succeeded in bringing his lips to mine and as we suckled each other’s tongue, I felt the heaviness inside of me turn into something else. I squeezed it tight and Oliver moaned in my mouth.

“Fuck me, please,” I begged him, yanking his hair.

He bit on my lips, “I’m close already,” he groaned, but it didn’t matter, I said, raking my nails across his shoulders.

The next minutes felt like being caught in an earthquake: Oliver pounded into me and I tried to hold on to him but my muscles refused to cooperate so I surrendered, dazed and drooling with pleasure, as his Star of David bounced on his chest and his balls slammed against my ass. When he finally came, with a series of powerful seizures, I screamed his name and he did too.

 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” Elio muttered as I tried to pull out of him.

“You’ll be sore,” I argued, but the truth was that I wanted to stay where I was.

We had rolled to the side so that I wouldn’t squash him with my weight. I took his face in my hands and stroked his cheekbones.

“I’d forgotten how huge you were,” he said. “I promise I’m gonna do better next time.”

I loved him so much my heart was breaking with it.

“You were amazing,” I replied, rubbing his nose with mine.

“I just lay there and took it,” he said, dejectedly, “Like a fucking virgin.”

His words went straight to my balls.

“Can’t say stuff like that,” I growled, “Gets me going again.”

“Really?” he smirked.

“Yes, really,” I answered, and shoved my tongue inside his mouth.


	41. June - part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fluffy smut. Elio is on fire.
> 
> POVs alternate again.

 

Despite our best intentions, we fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was dark outside and Oliver was snoring softly. His head was resting on my chest and his exhales tickled me. 

I stroked the damp hair at his nape and sighed contentedly. Almost three years on, and we had finally recovered what had been lost, but this time there would be no regrets. The soreness which once had been a mark of shame had become a badge of honour, a sign of ownership.

I admired his naked body and wondered why I had not seen the truth back then; too scared, too young: yes, that was part of it. But there was more: the conviction that he was the stronger one and I the weaker; that he was the teacher and I the pupil. What a naive and outdated yardstick I had used. The truth was far more complex and intriguing: Oliver had hinted at it when he proposed we switched names, but I had not reflected on that until much later. Getting to know Oliver was like looking into a mirror, and while Kurt had been a challenge he’d also been a revelation: I was him too, with his troubled morality and his destructive tendencies. There were no more secrets between us and yet the desire had not subsided, like I had once feared.

 

I was deep in thought when I felt him shift.

“You okay?” he muttered against my skin.

“Bit disappointed,” I joked, “Was hoping for seconds.”

“You slept too,” he muttered, “I heard you snuffle.”

“That was you, my dear; I am silent as the grave.”

He chuckled. “This grave has some peculiar sound effects.”

I pulled his hair and he slapped my thigh.

“Are you okay everywhere?” he asked, as he peppered my torso with kisses.

“It hurts a little, but--”

“I shouldn’t have--”

I made him look at me. “It will be the same for you, soon. Unless you don’t want to---”

He swallowed, twice, and I had to suppress a cat-like purr.

“I do, yes, just, oh god,” he replied, licking his chapped lips.

“You do?” I asked, and this time I did purr. He nodded and I towed him up for a smooch. He still tasted of my spunk, and I would have fucked him senseless if I hadn’t been on an empty stomach.

“Shower then dinner,” he said, and this time I did not object.

 

I suggested that I would wash us both, and Oliver acquiesced. I hadn’t seen him so relaxed in a very long time. In fact, I probably never had. There had always been something lurking beneath the surface, a tinge of uneasiness, a vague sense of fatalism, the echoes of past goodbyes. Now, he was as carefree as a child and that filled my heart with something like giddiness.

“Tell me what you are thinking,” I said, while I scrubbed his back.

“I am seriously considering writing a book about Kurt’s story,” he replied. “But I am not yet sure whether it should be a fictional retelling or a sort of reportage.”

“Won’t you get into trouble if you name names?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he replied, “But you are probably right. Will you help me?”

“Not sure what you are asking,” I said, “I’m not great with words.”

“You could read the drafts and give me your honest opinion. I know you wouldn’t be anything other than sincere.”

I kissed his shoulder blades and followed the line of his spine with my fingertips.

“I can’t wait,” I said, “But I better warn you: you are very sexy when you write and I have no intention of holding back.”

He giggled. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he quipped.

“Okay,” I replied, “I still have your shirt and I used to jerk off with it.”

Silence.

Heavy breathing.

“Really?” he asked.

I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my body to his.

“Yes, it’s inside a plastic bag in my suitcase. I don’t want to look at it, because it was there when you weren’t. But I’ll never part with it.”

Oliver’s eyes were bright when he turned round to kiss me.

 

We had dinner on the balcony, dressed in robes and barefoot.

Rico kept us well stocked with fruit and vegetables, so we were having melon, a mixed salad, together with a selection of kosher cold cuts.

Chilled white wine and fresh olive bread accompanied the meal, which Oliver was polishing off as though the end of days were nigh.

“I will miss this view,” I said, “And everything else, including the vomit-green bathroom.”

“Trastevere is a better location,” he argued, “Rico and Alessio are just around the corner and Nash too.”

He and Oliver had become good friends and Marco was also a regular when Nash invited us over for dinner for drinks. They had girlfriends but changed them so often that Oliver and I didn’t bother recalling their names. That reminded me of something I’d meant to tell him.

“By the way, the other day I bumped into Silvia.”

“Where was that?” he asked, without looking at me.

“Cola di Rienzo,” I replied, “She was on her lunch break and I was looking for a pair of espadrilles. We had coffee together.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” 

“No, I ended up spending too much time with her, telling her about us,” I said, “I hadn’t seen her since I told her about a certain blond guy named Kurt.”

He smiled, “She must have been disappointed that you’re no longer on the market.”

“She has someone, more than one, in fact.”

Oliver’s foot slid underneath mine.

“But not you,” he said, softly, almost shyly.

Suddenly, the atmosphere had changed again and was charged with electricity.

“More wine?” I asked, and when Oliver nodded, I poured him a glass and handed it to him.

We drank in silence, breathing in the warm night air.

“Fancy a bit of music?” he enquired, after a few minutes.

“Something mellow,” I replied, “Maybe some Billie Holiday.”

He stood up and his robe fell open. Before he moved away, I caught a glimpse of his plump cock.

I drained my glass - taking my time - then followed him inside.

 

My intention had been of dancing with Oliver in the semi-darkness, seduce him slowly and take him to bed. It didn’t go as predicted.

When I went to him, he had just found the record he wished to play. I was behind him and the collar of his robe was loose enough to slide off his shoulder. On an impulse, I tugged it down and sank my teeth into the meat of his upper arm. My other hand groped his ass. Oliver was pliant in my grasp, signalling that intentions matched mine. I undid his belt and undressed him. By the time he was bent over the desk, my dick was desperate for him. I wasn’t going to take him there, but I wanted to work him open until he was a pleading mess.

I should have known that my plan would backfire.

 

 

All through dinner I’d felt as though we’d just woken up after our wedding night.

I could tell that Elio was similarly affected by the glances he kept darting at me and by his closeness and the constant touches.

In the end, I could no longer stand it. I asked him if he wished to listen to some music and when I stood up to leave, I made sure he saw that I was more than ready for him.

I wasn’t drunk but the wine had played its part: when Elio came up behind me and took charge, what was left of my inhibitions fled the scene.

He got me naked and guided me towards the desk, manhandling me until my legs were spread wide and my ass and balls were in full display. I turned my head to the side to look at him and he spanked me. It wasn’t a punishment, he said, he only wanted to mark me a bit. He’d take me to bed afterwards – he said – this was only the start. My brain took in what he said, but my body wasn’t interested.

“Please, please,” I found myself begging. I took my erection in hand but it was too overwhelming. I cried out Elio’s name and that was all he was waiting for.

 

 

I sucked on my fingers, got them dripping wet and used them to fondle Oliver’s balls while I was rimming him. I loved that I could feel his pulse on my tongue and every vibration and moan were amplified.

“I’m ready,” he said, panting, as I was about to finger him.

“No, no, we need, you need---” I babbled incoherently.

“Your cock in me, that’s what I need,” he bit back.

I was too high on him to argue and my dick seemed to have a life of its own: it had pushed out of my robe and was dribbling on the floor. I undressed with one hand while the other caressed Oliver’s back and thighs.

He was getting impatient and his muscles were twitching. To calm him down, I spanked him again.

“Yes, yes,” he sobbed, and I nearly came on the spot.

“You like it, you fucking like it,” I growled.

Oliver circled his hips and begged me again. I didn’t even realise that I was entering him until my cockhead was being massaged by his sphincter. For a moment, I thought my heart would explode or maybe that I was having a stroke.

I didn’t want to hurt him, but I didn’t know how to stop.

_You’ll kill me if you stop._

 

I would be lying if I said that it didn’t hurt, but the pain was like fire: it spread from my core to my belly and from there to my chest, my throat and my mouth; every thrust was like the lashing of a whip. Behind me, Elio had lost control: he was ploughing into me, while his nails dug into my flesh and his mouth spat out profanities and endearments in a mixture of languages.

“You’re making me come,” he croaked, after he’d fucked me as deep and as hard as I’d ever been fucked.

I was in tears and I didn’t know why or when it had started.

“More, just, please,” I begged, and he pulled out a little only to slam back into my heat. Someone screamed; maybe it was me.

 

 

We lay down on the cushions where we’d made love earlier.

Oliver was still shaking and I was a bit dizzy.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I whispered, while I played with the hair on his chest.

“I’m fine,” he replied, and raked his fingers through my curls, “Never been better.”

“It didn’t go as I’d imagined it would. I wanted to sex you up in our bed, with seductive music and fancy candles.”

He chuckled. “Did you buy candles?”

“Vanilla and ylang-ylang,” I replied, “And Nash gave me some weed.”

I dotted his sternum and throat with kisses.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured.

“I love you,” I said, and he smiled with his eyes closed; more than anything, more than myself.

 

 

We woke up in the middle of the night, sticky and thirsty, and after cleaning up and drinking several glasses of water, we finally made it to our bed.

Elio lit one of my cigarettes and put it between my lips.

“You were limping just now,” he said, grinning.

“Don’t be smug,” I replied, blowing smoke in his face. “It had been a while. You had more practice.”

He stole the Lucky Strike and sucked on it.

“Not for a long time,” he said, “But I don’t want to think about the others. Let’s forget about them.”

“What others?” I joked, and he pinched my nipple. I wanted him to do it again; it was crazy how much I still wanted him.

“Tomorrow, I don’t have to be anywhere until after lunch,” he said, scratching the back of his neck and half-yawning.

“I have a meeting with my publishers in the afternoon.”

He sighed. “We can have breakfast in bed.”

“Is that code for another sixty-nine?”

Elio stubbed the cigarette out and climbed on top of me.

“That was not _really_ a sixty-nine,” he said.

“Not my fault, was it?”

“You didn’t complain.”

“I had a mouth full of cock.”

“Poor darling,” he cooed, nuzzling the underside of my jaw.

We made out until we were too tired to move or speak, and fell asleep in each other’s arms.


	42. Corsari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback set in May.
> 
> An episode which sheds some more light on Oliver and Elio's relationship.
> 
> It was incredibly easy to write, so it might be totally shit. You decide ;)
> 
> Elio's POV

 

Oliver’s publishers had always been an unspecified entity to me until the day he started talking about Edoardo.

“He knows an awful lot about obscure writers no one has ever heard of,” he said during one of Nash’s dinner parties. Our host frowned as though he was consulting his memory. “Is that Edoardo Corsari?” he asked and when Oliver nodded, “Yes, I have met him once at a book signing event in Piazza Venezia. He speaks impeccable English.”

I decided then and there that I hated Edoardo Corsari.

Afterwards, when we were alone, I casually asked Nash what Edoardo looked like. My friend smirked, “Don’t worry, he’s got a fiancée, a stunning blonde named Maria Something, and a string of exes to fill Rome's telephone directory. At least, that’s what I’ve heard through the grapevine.”

The girl’s name was Maria Riva and she was very beautiful, with an aristocratic profile and legs worthy of a Vogue photo-shoot. He wasn’t as flawless, but had a charismatic personality which attracted most people.

I wasn’t among them.

 

It was the middle of May but it was as hot as August: cycling exhausted me and I was dissatisfied with the composition I was working on. Rico had gone to stay with his boyfriend prior to moving out for good and I felt like I was losing my bearings.  The real issue, of course, was my sexual frustration: the closer we got to June the more impatient and irritable I became.

“If I die, please bury me somewhere cool and shady,” I said, as I flopped down on the couch, fanning myself with a copy of Time magazine.

Oliver – who had been writing at his desk – gazed at me and laughed.

“There’s a jug of icy lemonade in the fridge,” he said. “You could have taken my car instead of your bike.”

“I thought you had an appointment to go to,” I replied.

“Oh yes, but Edoardo was in the neighbourhood so I invited him over.”

I didn’t like that one bit, but I wasn’t going to say anything.

“Has he offered you any work?” I enquired.

“Yes, we’ve discussed a few ideas,” Oliver was enthusiastic. “He and Maria Riva are giving a cocktail party at the _Chiostro del Bramante_ and they have invited us. It’s a networking event and it would be profitable for me to go.”

I decided I’d call _maman_ to find out more about Edoardo Corsari, but in the meantime I smiled sweetly and said, “I’ll make sure my black suit is dry-cleaned.”

 

 

“Corsari Senior knew everybody,” _maman_ explained, “From Moravia to Robbe-Grillet. He died in a speedboat accident four years ago.”

I remembered vaguely my parents talking about it at the time.

“Edoardo adored his father and is trying to follow in his footsteps,” she continued, “He’s bright, pleasant and nobody has a bad word to say about him.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

There was a moment’s hesitation.

“I couldn’t tell you why,” she replied, “Nothing I can put my finger on.”

I always trusted her instincts, even when their judgment was as undefined as in this instance.

 

Oliver was prepared for the drugs to make an appearance. He’d been a dealer, after all, and many of his customers were upper class and rich.

I was hoping that Corsari would offer us a bump, because that would have solved the problem without my intervention.

“You are a musician, aren’t you?” Maria Riva had joined me outside for a cigarette.

“Studying, still,” I replied, “Are you a model?”

She gave a raspy laugh. “Too short,” she replied, “And I’m not into a diet of coke and champagne, thanks very much.”

Drugs were out of the equation, apparently.

She fingered the black pearls she was wearing around her slender neck. “I’d have loved to become a pilot.”

“Flying planes?” I was intrigued.

“Formula 1,” she replied, “I adore fast cars. But, alas, I am a girl.”

“You could try.”

“It’s a men-only club,” she sighed, “I own a Lamborghini and I make the most of it. I’ll take you for a spin, if you like. I’d invite Oliver too, but it’s a two-seater.”

“Now, you mean?”

“Why not?” she replied, letting the cigarette fall on the gravel. “You are bored and I need a breath of fresh air.”

Oliver was deep in conversation with two writers and an editor, while Corsari was entertaining an elderly couple who owned one of Rome’s most renowned bookshops.

Maria Riva caught her boyfriend’s eye and I tried to signal to mine but I was less successful. It didn’t bother me, since I was sure he’d understand.

 

The car was as black and shiny as her pearls and she drove it expertly and with gusto. To show me what it could do, she took me to the Eur, which at that hour was deserted and resembled a De Chirico landscape. The windows were down and the breeze ruffled her short hair and my curls. She was wearing Capri pants and a silk blouse with no bra. Even though I could see the peaks of her nipples, and despite her Grace Kelly-like countenance, there was something masculine in her, which reminded me a little of Silvia. If I hadn’t been utterly consumed by Oliver, I might have considered sleeping with her; as things stood, I was only curious to see what she wanted from me, if anything at all.

After a few laps at breakneck speed, we pulled over in front of the _Colosseo Quadrato_. She switched the engine off and let out a contended sigh.

“That’s better,” she exclaimed.

I offered her one of my cigarettes and she took out her lighter, which looked both simple and an _objet de luxe_.

We got out of the car and smoked in silence, leaning against the Lamborghini.

“I prefer Northern Italy, don’t you?” she said, after a while. “Milan, Turin: there are fewer temptations there. Here, there’s so much to take in.”

“I used to live in Crema,” I replied, “It’s alright in the summer, but in winter it’s like the land of the dead.”

She pointed towards one of the buildings.

“Those are Edo’s offices,” she said, “During the day, this part of Rome makes me shudder. It reminds me too much of the fascists. My grandparents fled to Portugal to escape deportation.”

“You are Jewish, like me.”

“And like Oliver.”

I nodded, looking into her eyes.

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“No, not to me,” she answered. “Edo is a lapsed catholic. He stopped believing in god when his father died.”

It was odd that she was confiding in me when she had only just met me.

She glanced down at her engagement ring and smiled.

“Most people think that I am a spoiled princess,” she said, with an air of great amusement. “But I was taught to do most things, from changing a tire to wiring a plug. Edo is the intellectual; I am the hausfrau and the jack of all trades.”

“Are you getting married soon?”

“In September, but we are as good as, already.”

I understood what she meant.

“Let’s go,” she said, “Would you like to drive?”

That was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

 

It was past two when Oliver and I left.

We had not been alone after my return so he hadn’t yet had the chance to ask me where I’d gone.

“She let me drive her Lamborghini,” I told him, and he was suitably jealous.

“I like her,” I went on, “She’s rather mysterious, but not in a pretentious way.”

“Well, she’s your type,” he said, “Tall, blonde, assertive.”

The roads were nearly empty and we were in a leafy residential area.

I slid my hand inside the opening of Oliver’s shirt. He was hot and a little sweaty and his nipples immediately perked up.

“Elio, what are you---”

“Drive slowly,” I murmured, “Or maybe---”

He parked the car in a cul-de-sac.

I undid his belt, unzipped his trousers and took his semi-hard cock out.

He moaned loudly and I silenced him with my tongue.

When I was done, his eyes were hazy and his mouth slick with spit. I took his hand and placed it on the back of my head.

“Hold me down,” I ordered, before swallowing his dick to the root.

I let him feed it to me, let him thrust up into my mouth and scream to his heart’s content.

“Ah, yes, god, yes, fuck, hmm, yes,” he cried, with a scratchy voice that filled me with pride and fuelled my desire.  When he came, I made him watch as his cock spurted all over my tongue and lips and chin. I lapped it up and he couldn’t stand it any longer: he had to close his eyes.

 

Ten days later they invited us to dinner at their home near Villa Borghese.

Oliver had been toying with the idea of finishing his book on Heraclitus and Corsari appeared to be interested.

Their apartment had veined marble floors – probably Carrara – and stylish furniture, modern but not too ostentatious.

Edoardo was wearing jeans and a black Lacoste: he reminded me of a very young Warren Beatty, with his thick dark hair and perfect nose. Maria Riva wore a green tunic dotted with sunflowers.

I had been dreading the occasion, imagining hordes of maids and rows of silver cutlery, but it turned out to be a very informal affair: _linguine allo scoglio_ , salad _alla marinara_ , spinach and _gorgonzola_ quiche. We had ice-cream for dessert and home-made _grappa_ as a digestive.

The conversation flowed freely and by the end of it, I was forced to concur that Edoardo Corsari was a very clever and interesting man.

He and Oliver had embarked on a discussion about a niche writer named Rolfe, when Maria Riva said she wanted to show me something.

“It’s in my room,” she whispered, “I bought it today and I’d like your opinion.”

I was slightly inebriated, but I could walk a straight line.

They had separate bedrooms, she explained, even though they slept together. I could believe that, considering that her bed was littered with clothes, books and other random objects.

“Have a cigarette,” she shouted, from inside her walk-in closet, “They are in the silver box on the cabinet.”

I did as told and went to smoke on the semi-circular balcony, which had a view over the park. I wondered whether one day Oliver and I would be able to afford such luxury and if we’d care. The former was possible, the latter improbable,

My reveries were interrupted by Maria Riva’s “What do you think?”

I turned around and found her clad in a man’s tuxedo, with shiny lapels and onyx buttons. She was boyish and small-breasted, so she could have passed for a man, especially with her hair scraped back and her face devoid of make-up.

“Is it for a costume party?” I asked, admiring the cut of the jacket.

She laughed, but it wasn’t with happiness.

“In a way,” she replied, lighting a cigarette with nervous fingers.

“Ever wondered what it’s like to live inside the wrong body?”

I was in no condition to have that kind of conversation, but I tried my best.

“When I met Oliver, at first I believed I wanted to be him. It hurt to know that I never could.”

Maria Riva turned her back to me and spoke as if to herself only.

“Edo likes Oliver,” she said, “He likes him a lot. And I think Oliver admires him too, in a way.”

A shudder worked its way up my spine, but I waited for her to continue.

“You will have him for the rest of your life,” she went on, “And Edo is clean: we get tested every three months.”

“I won’t let him,” my voice broke and I had to clear my throat. “And anyway Oliver would never--- what are you suggesting anyway? What do you take us for?”

She came up to me and stroked down my arms, to calm me down.

“No, no, what I meant was that you and Oliver together might, you know, with Edo--- for friendship and fun, nothing sordid, no money or---“ she made a face.

“And you wouldn’t mind?”

I could see that she would, but that it was a price she was willing to pay.

“We are not into that,” I replied, “We are absolutely monogamous.”

“What if Oliver was interested,” she argued, “Could you not let him have it, just this once?”

A terrible sense of foreboding made me hurry back to the dining room, but when I got there everything was the same as before. At least that’s what I thought, until I saw Oliver’s eyes. It was a mere glimpse, but what I read in them made my heart stop: it was fear, but more than that: despair.

“I have a terrible headache,” I said, and it wasn’t a complete lie.

Our host suggested I take an aspirin, but I replied that I feared a migraine and that it would be better for me to head back.

Maria Riva had changed back into her green dress and she joined her fiancé in wishing me a speedy recovery. Oliver shook Corsari’s hand and kissed the woman on both cheeks.

 

I didn’t want to speak in the car, so I pretended to fall asleep, while in fact I was trying to figure out what had really happened.

We were in the kitchen drinking lemonade when Oliver took my hand and kissed it.

“I am so sorry,” he murmured, and the world seemed to stop.

“What for?” I asked, harshly.

“For not being—but I just, I can’t,” he replied. In his eyes was the same expression I’d seen before.

“And you think I can or want to?”

“Not now, but maybe one day, just for fun, but I’m sure I never will—“

I got out of my chair and sat on his lap.

“I was very clear with her,” I said, while stroking his cheeks, “We are monogamous, one hundred per cent. I wouldn’t want that, not for fun or any other reason, but I’d rather die than see that look in your eyes ever again.”

“It reminded me of that night at Fire Island, even if it had nothing to do with it,” he whispered.

I peppered his face with kisses. “It was a trigger and you never have to apologise to me for feeling like you did.”

We hugged tightly.

 _I will always take care of you_ , I thought, but maybe I said it out loud because I felt Oliver relax and melt into me.


	43. Love Shack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys go on holiday...
> 
> Fluffy fluff, like I promised
> 
> Set in July, Elio's POV

Alessio had mentioned the cottage on Lake Nemi when we’d helped Rico move into his place. It was his brother’s property and he, Curzio, had proposed to lend it to us.

“Why, we have met him twice and hardly spoken to him,” Oliver had said. Unexpected generosity always caught him by surprise, especially when it came from the family of a friend or an acquaintance.

“I told him what you did for Rico and he thinks you both need a break,” Alessio had replied.

He was at the first stages of the virus and the AZT trial seemed to have stopped it in its tracks, but his older brother was watching him closely, afraid of any sudden change.

Oliver had said that we’d think about it, probably believing that the offer had been a perfunctory one, which would soon be forgotten.

He’d been mistaken.

 

It was thus that on the first week in July we drove to Lake Nemi, with a car overflowing with disparate objects, including Oliver’s typewriter, my guitar and fishing implements borrowed from Beppe.

The latter had at first behaved rather coldly towards my boyfriend until he’d found out that Oliver was fond of fishing. I had completely forgotten about it, even though I had bemoaned the afternoons he’d used to spend with Anchise down at the river.

Oliver would go to Beppe’s shop and they’d drink coffee and talk about reels and jigs and other impedimenta I couldn’t even begin to care about.

When he’d found out about our excursion, Beppe had been more than glad to offer some of his gear and Oliver had promised him an abundance of fresh fish.

“Pike,” he explained to me, “and kingfish, Beppe said. And we may dig out some treasures from the sunken ships of Caligula.”

“What?” I had been half-asleep but the words treasures and Caligula had pierced through the haze.

Oliver sniggered and flicked the ash of his cigarette out of the open window. It was early morning but the sun was already scorching.

“Your dad must have told you about Diana Nemorensis and her sanctuary,” he said, with a glint in his eyes.

“He’s a goldmine of information, but I have a highly selective memory,” I replied, nose in the air.

“You mean you’d have remembered if it had been a god rather than a goddess?” he joked. I wrapped my hand around his neck and pulled his nape hair. He cried out so I leaned to the side and kissed his cheek.

We were so happy we needed to feign bickering in order to let out some of it, like air from an overinflated tire.

After this pleasant interlude, Oliver explained about the Emperor’s sunken ships and the various efforts that had been made over the centuries to recover the relics from the lake. Someone, a man called De Marchi, who attempted the rescue in the 16th century was probably the inventor of the diving suit.

“Did Beppe tell you this?” I asked.

“Some of it, but mostly it was Pro,” he replied.

It was the first I’d heard of it.

“Did you tell him about our holiday?”

“He knew already,” Oliver said, regarding me with fondness.

“Yes, okay, I _may_ have telephoned _maman_ a few days ago and I _may_ have mentioned it. You know how she is---”

He chuckled.

“Annella would have been a goddess in Ancient Rome,” he said, “Or maybe an oracle.”

“People always imagine they’d have been someone important, like Cleopatra or Caesar. It’s silly.”

“What would you have been?”

I turned and looked at him: he was wearing his diminutive green shorts and a faded yellow t-shirt; his body was bulging in all the right places and his skin had a caramel tan.

“Your slave,” I replied, “Or your master.”

He hummed, “Sounds about right,” and rested his hand on top of mine.

 

The cottage wasn’t one in the sense Jane Austen had intended: sprawling mansions with four or five bedrooms and an enormous kitchen.

It was a shack with cooking facilities. The shower was outside at the back and the toilet was in a separate cubicle next to it. Curzio had made sure everything was spotlessly clean and in working order, but it was clear no one had lived there in a while, probably since the previous summer.

The best feature was the garden, which overlooked the lake and was entirely private. There were holly oaks and olive trees and gorse bushes, and the nearest neighbours had erected a tall picket fence to keep the intruders at bay.

“I’ll sunbathe in the nude,” Oliver exclaimed. “It’s been so long.”

I felt myself scowl from the inside out.

“Not sure it’s a good idea,” I argued, “The villa up there,” I indicated the only building in our line of sight, “Someone might see us.”

“Only if they had a telescope,” Oliver said.

“They might, for all we know.”

“Well, if they do, we’ll make it worth their while.”

He took me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine. I slid my tongue in his mouth and he sighed and pulled me flush against him. We hadn’t been so intimate out in the open since our first summer, but this was better: we were alone and we could make our own rules.

Oliver was undoing my jeans when I realised where things were heading.

“Let’s go inside,” I panted.

He laughed and in one swift motion, picked me up and carried me like a bride over the threshold.

 

The bed was a surprise: aside for being big enough to fit Oliver lengthwise, it had a firm mattress and slats instead of springs.

It didn’t make a noise, not even when Oliver rammed into me while I grabbed the headboard for dear life. I screamed the place down when I came, and he shouted my name: it was liberating and left us so exhausted that we fell into a deep slumber.

 

I woke up to the sound of Debussy.

Oliver had unpacked and plugged in the portable stereo. I raised my head and saw that he was preparing coffee.

“Wait, I’ll give you a hand,” I said.

“I’m nearly done,” he replied, “But I haven’t touched your clothes. You can take care of that later.”

“Later,” I repeated. The word had lost its malevolent connotations.

He brought me brunch in bed: apricots, crackers and Nutella and orange juice.

“Thanks for cleaning me up,” I told him, over the notes of Debussy’s La Mer.

“You didn’t stir you were so out of it,” he smiled and ruffled my hair.

“I’m not a morning person,” I quipped.

Oliver was shirtless and his shorts hung low on his hips. My gaze kept darting back to his toned abdomen and his furry thighs.

“I won’t do it, if it really bothers you,” he said, as he rested the coffee cup on the floor. There were no bedside tables; only two chairs on which we’d placed our backpacks.

He saw that I was confused. “I won’t go outside without clothes, I mean.”

I thought about it for a moment. “I want to do it, with you,” I said, “But I want to be sure no one will be able to see us.”

“We can explore the grounds and find a secluded spot,” he suggested, with an impish smile. “And it doesn’t have to be sunbathing. We could make love under the stars.”

I blushed, for no apparent reason, and buried my face in the crook of his neck.

He didn’t say anything, but he stroked my back; the touch of his hand was gentle and reassuring.

“I don’t know why I feel like this,” I whispered. “You are so, just so perfect, and I can’t stop staring at you.”

He shook with silent laughter. “You don’t have to stop,” he said, “Stare all you like.”

I took him at his word and – after we’d finished our meal – I made him lie supine on the bed and removed his shorts. It was past midday and the song of the cicadas was loud and persistent. Oliver’s eyes were shut and the hollow of his throat was shiny with sweat. I memorised each birth mark, each freckle and blemish, but watching would never be enough, so I put my hands on him, relishing the warmth of his flesh and the firmness of his muscles. He let out a little moan of pleasure.

“Don’t open your eyes,” I whispered. “You can fall asleep if you wish.”

I was drowsy from the heat but it perversely enhanced my desire for Oliver, same as drugs or alcohol. I suspected that he was in the same condition, because his cock was plumper and his nipples perky. I felt the sudden desire to lick him all over, but I didn’t want to upset out equilibrium. I scooted down the bed and stuck the tip of my tongue into his navel. He shuddered and thrust his pelvis up, but I had other ideas; instead of going for the obvious, I rested my cheek on his thigh and rubbed it until my skin tingled.

“You gonna give yourself a rash,” he chuckled.

“Don’t care,” I muttered.

“You will when people at the supermarket stare at you.”

“To hell with them,” I replied, defiantly, and proceeded to take care of Oliver’s neglected thigh.

 

We had brought some supplies with us, including beer, pasta and Nutella, but later afternoon we went to the shops to buy bread, fresh fruit and vegetables, eggs and meat. There was a quality fridge-freezer in the shack, probably due to the fact that it was used to store fish from the lake. Oliver had hinted that he’d wake up early the following morning to catch our lunch, but I had ignored him.

It was thus that when I felt him stir at an ungodly hour, I grasped him firmly and rolled on top of him.

“Elio, go back to sleep,” he whispered.

“No, you, here with me,” I mumbled and tangled my legs with his.

“You can come too,” he offered, but to no avail.

In the past, he’d have gone jogging no matter what, he’d told me so, but now he wouldn’t shake me off. I fell asleep on him, but with a sliver of guilt nagging at me.

 

We agreed that late evenings were more suitable for fishing than early mornings. Once or twice I went with him, and strummed my guitar while he smoked a cigarette or read a book.

At first, he objected to the noise, saying that it’d scare the fish.

“This isn’t noise,” I argued, “That’s Villa-Lobos, you philistine,” I huffed.

“Pikes can’t tell that from a chainsaw,” he said, only in order to provoke me.

“Pikes won’t have sex with me later tonight.”

“First it was flora and now it’s fauna,” he quipped.

The discussion was about to degenerate into a wrestling session when there came a splashing noise and the reel started spinning.

“You got one!” I shouted, and Oliver allowed me to help him, which was more fun than I’d envisaged.

 

Night swimming was my favourite pastime, because we could pretend we were the only two beings in the world. We had done it a few times back home, but always stealthily, trying not to be seen and found out. And always with the sense that time was running out, that in a matter of days Oliver would be gone and I’d be left alone, retracing our steps and mourning his absence.

This was our first real holiday and every new memory we created together would never hurt like the past ones had.

 

Once he caught me by surprise and threw me in the water with my clothes on.

“Why would you do that?” I whined, clawing at his slippery skin.

“For the look on your face,” he grinned, “You should see yourself.”

“What?” I asked, frowning. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me breathless.

We swam ashore and Oliver laid me down on the soft grass among the trees. It was still warm from the sun.

“Are we safe from the neighbour’s telescope?” he asked, smiling.

The moonlight caught on the myriad droplets of water in his hair and on his skin.

“Off, off, off,” I replied, and tried to remove my sodden clothes.

He laughed and got rid of them in no time.

“I’ve always wanted to do this in the open air,” he murmured, and before I could ask, he swallowed my dick down his throat.

I clutched at his hair with both my fists and the more I pulled, the harder he sucked. When it was my turn, I made him fuck my mouth while I tried desperately not to pass out from the surfeit of pleasure.

Somewhere in the distance, music was playing.

Or maybe it was my heart.


	44. Ines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of cigars and role-playing....
> 
> Some smut and some plot.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Next: The Perlmans come to Rome.

Ines had said she would never leave San Lorenzo and move to Balduina.

“The fuck would I do over there? Go to church on Sundays and sell my ass to snooty rich men the rest of the week? My friends are here.”

Her friends were other druggies and her sometime pimp, but she had a point.

Oliver didn’t see it that way.

“It’s a chance to cut your losses and start from scratch,” he’d said, and she had given him a look which suggested she might have spat in his face if he'd gone on talking.

Licia had tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t listen.

 

“She’s a free agent,” I told Oliver, “You can’t tie people down, even if it is for their own good.”

“You don’t understand,” he started, before noticing the thunderstorm behind my eyes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Old habits die hard,” I replied, massaging his shoulders. We were at Enzo’s apartment, moving furniture around and packing books inside carton boxes and wooden crates.

It was nearing the end of June and at nine in the evening the sky was suffused with the pink of sunset.

We sat on the same deck chair on the balcony, side by side, smoking Lucky Strikes.

“She’ll go back to doing heroin,” he said, shooing a pigeon which had come searching for food. “Without Doc’s methadone, she’d be doomed.”

“You should trust her more,” I argued, after a while. I felt him tense up, saw his clenched jaw and his frown. I continued all the same. “If you are not prepared to give her agency, she’ll never get clean. I have met her and talked to her: I can tell she’s very clever, underneath the sneers and insults.”

“Didn’t she call you Bambi?”

I snorted and nudged his shoulder. “Even clever people talk bullshit, from time to time.”

He pushed back and I nearly lost my balance.

“Oh I don’t know, I think Bambi is one of your personalities,” he said, silkily.

“ _One_ of them,” I enquired.

He nodded his head, the cigarette dangling from his grinning lips.

“Then there’s Casanova,” he was counting on his fingers, “Jekyll and Hyde, and more recently, the Marquis de Sade.”

I did an exaggerated double-take, but the flush on my cheeks was genuine.

“Who, moi?” I screeched.

Oliver uncovered his right hip, where the mark left by my teeth was fading but still noticeable. I brushed it with my fingertips, felt him shiver.

“Do you mind?”

He smiled and crushed the butt of the Lucky Strike underfoot. Thankfully, he wasn’t wearing espadrilles, I noticed.

“Course not,” he replied, “But it is fun to keep you guessing.”

I ruffled his hair and he barked out a laugh. He was so full of joy I hesitated to mention Ines again. Yet it had to be done.

“She is quick-witted and angry,” I said, “Heroin addicts tend to be very lethargic, but she has a lot of fight in her.” An idea came to me. “What if she were to help Doc? Is he collecting and distributing the medical supplies all by himself?”

Oliver stared at me as though I’d gone insane.

“You don’t put an addict in that position,” he exclaimed, “She’ll pocket the stuff and you’ll never see her again.”

“And once she consumed it all she’d be back to square one.”

“Logic is not your friend when you are in the throes of dependency.”

I could not deny it: I’d been very close to throw caution to the wind in order to make love to Oliver while we were unsure about his health.

We went back to packing and dropped the subject for the time being, but I was certain that he was pondering my suggestions.

 

We had just returned from our short stay at Curzio’s cottage on Lake Nemi, relaxed and blissfully happy, when Nash informed us that Ines was gone.

“How do you know?” I asked him, a little surprised.

It turned out that Nash had met somebody who worked for the _Regione Lazio_ who could delay the _sfratto_ of the commune from San Lorenzo. Nash had gone there with the big shot in tow and had been told by Licia that Ines has vacated her room.

“And what about the delay,” I asked.

“Until October,” he replied, “There’s a local election in the works and he knows he won’t get re-elected.”

I sniggered, “Scattering landmines all over the place.”

“Party politics,” Nash clearly despised them but was willing to reap the benefits.

Oliver was chomping at the bit, so I handed him the receiver.

They talked for a while then Oliver thanked him and ended the call.

“She’ll return when she finds out they are still there.”

“Maybe you are right,” he said, but his words were devoid of belief.

 

The following day, we were back at Enzo’s apartment. The living room was a mess: there were boxes, crates and random objects everywhere, but the couch had not been moved.

Three hours of de-cluttering and packing later, I had an idea.          

“Remember when I said I could try being a rent boy?”

Oliver wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm and blinked.

“You were only kidding.”

I strode to the bookshelf and plucked a box from one of the many niches.

“I found these earlier,” I said, showing him the Cuban cigarillos.

“Fucking Enzo,” he chuckled. “You can say anything you want about him, but he has great taste.”

“Predictable,” I remarked, and then, “I thought they were yours.”

“Brat,” he said, sniffing the cigars with the air of one who had just unearthed a treasure.

After a moment, he recalled my opening gambit.

“Why were you talking about rent boys?”

I slid a hand underneath his t-shirt, relishing the warm stickiness of his skin.

“Just an idea,” I whispered, “A challenge, in fact.”

He was waiting for an explanation but I preferred to show him. I took his clothes off and guided him to the couch. We had covered it with a clean sheet to shield it from the dust: Oliver sat on it – he was fully naked - and regarded me with curiosity, saying nothing.

I went to the kitchen and uncorked two bottles of ice-cold beer then picked up a lighter, a cup and a saucer.

When I got back to the living room, I placed the crockery on the seat next to Oliver’s and the drinks on the floor. I took a cigar from the box, placed it between his lips and let him light it.

“What shall I call you?” I asked, as I divested myself. “Sir is too formal and I don’t know your name.”

His soft dick plumped up.

“Elio,” he replied, without missing a beat, “You can call me Elio.”

“And I am Oliver,” I said, “May I?” I indicated the beer.

“Be my guest.”

He puffed on the cigar and eyed me with a blank gaze. I swigged down a mouthful of Peroni to steady my nerves and wondered briefly what the hell I was doing. Oliver’s hair had been bleached by the sun and it was longer than I’d ever seen it; the tan on his face enhanced the blue of his eyes and the white of his teeth. I tried to imagine what it would be like for a stranger to be unimpressed by such beauty, but I was too keyed up to daydream.

“So, Elio,” I began, kneeling at his feet and gazing up into his face, “You mentioned that you can get it up, that you like having it sucked, but that you don’t feel much otherwise.”

Oliver swallowed but was poker-faced. He took his time answering: first he grabbed his bottle and drank most of its contents, belching after he was done. He then balanced the cigar on the saucer, making sure it would stay lit.

He bent down and held my chin between thumb and forefinger.

“You got that right, angel face,” he murmured, “The plan is for you to blow me with that pretty mouth and for me to look at you while smoking my cigar. You don’t come until I do.”

My dick was throbbing already, but I ignored it.

“What are the rules about touching?” I enquired.

“You can touch me from the waist down and yourself from the waist up,” he grinned, flashing his canines. “You game?”

I nodded and he resumed his sitting position, spreading his thigh very wide and biting on his cigar. His scent was strong: his armpits, his sex, the back of his neck, I knew the way each smelled, as though I’d been charged to classify them. I shut my eyes and when I reopened them I was Oliver, mouth for hire.

I stroked up his thighs, wanting to draw things out, but he was impatient.

“Get to it,” he urged me. He was fully hard and when he got to that point, he was unable to hold back.

“Hmm,” I grunted, and swirled my tongue around the head, all the while looking into his face. He had schooled his expression into one of studied boredom, but I noticed the tightness around his mouth. Since I didn’t want to miss a single twitch, I lapped at the shaft, making appreciative noises, as though I was enjoying eating an ice-cream. I took his balls in my mouth, first one then the other, while fisting his length.

“Oliver,” he said, “I told you to get to it.” He was aiming for menacing, but there was an undertone of desperation. His face was that of an indifferent god, determined to live among humans but contemptuous of them.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I breathed out and went down on him, until I had a throat full of cock. From then on, I lost myself in the act, savouring the thickness of the shaft, the flare at its root, the corded texture, the wiry hairs that tickled my nose. It took me a while to realise that there was no hand in my hair or fingers caressing my cheeks. When I did, I also felt the emptiness Oliver had once told me about: it was an ache between my balls and anus, acute as I’d never experienced it before. I wanted – no, I needed – something inside of me, but was being denied it by the rules of the game.

I moaned around Oliver’s cock and fixed a sort of drunken gaze on him.

We stared and stared and then he must have read into my soul because he dropped the cigar into the empty cup and swore under his breath.

“Fuck it,” he hissed, “Stupid, stupid boy,” and hauled me up until I was straddling his lap. He wetted his middle finger and without ceremonies, penetrated me with it. I made it easy for him, but he wouldn’t stop uttering profanities. I ran my hands through his hair, marvelling at the lushness of it, feeling as high as on quality hash.  

I couldn’t grab hold of my reactions, they kept eluding me. Oliver’s strong arms guided me, but it was my instinct which took over as I sat on his cock.

He moaned and invoked god, while I ground down on him, circling my hips to appreciate the size, the girth of him. It went on for a while: flesh slapping flesh, groans mingling with sighs and cries.

Oliver put an end to it when he squeezed my orgasm from me and I milked his from him soon after.

 

I lay puppet-like in his arms while he held the Peroni to my mouth.

“Drink,” he instructed, and I did.

“The hell happened,” I mumbled a while later.

He tried to laugh, but he couldn’t quite get there.

“You tell me,” he croaked.

I tried to recapture the sequence of events, but my mind was fuzzy.

“Was feeling empty,” I whispered.

Oliver kissed my lips then my jaw and my neck.

“I know,” he murmured, against my skin.

Later, he told me that he’d read it in my eyes and that while he could stand his own need, mine, no, he just couldn’t; that was his limit, because he ended where I began.

 

It was close to midnight when we decided to head home.

“Take the cigars,” I said, and he shook his head, grinned and did as I asked.

We grabbed our backpacks and heard a sharp rap at the door.  Oliver looked at me and I read his mind.

“Rico,” I suggested, as improbable as it sounded.

The person knocked again, louder.

“Who is it?” Oliver shouted, but no reply came, so he flung the door open.

Ines was on the threshold, wearing a mini dress and smoking a cigarette: she stared daggers at us.

“Will you let me in or what?” she protested.

Oliver stepped aside and she ambled in like she was doing us a favour.

“How did you find us?” I wondered.

“I asked around didn’t I?” she huffed, “Kurt’s a frigging giant and _un americano_.”

We let her visit the apartment without following her around, and heard her try the toilet flush and the bath faucets. When she smashed the piano keys, Oliver sprang forward and I had to restrain him.

Luckily, she returned into the living room and sat on a crate filled with tomes of the _Enciclopedia Treccani_.

“This place’s bloody ancient,” she sniffed, “The bathroom’s the colour of sick.”

I giggled and Oliver glared at me.

“We thought you’d bolted,” he said.

She gave us the once over and smirked.

“Did the same as you two not long ago,” she replied, “Can’t fuck with an audience unless you are that way inclined; or if it’s for money.”

“You have a boyfriend?” I asked.

Ines grimaced. “Way to assume stuff, Bambi.”

It was Oliver’s turn to snigger.

“Anyways,” she looked around and found an ashtray for her cigarette butt. “I could give you a hand, redecorate this hell-hole. I used to do this, once, before, you know.”

Despite the bluster, I could tell that she was sincere.

Oliver must have seen it too.

“Let’s talk about it,” he said, “There’s beer in the fridge.”

 


	45. The Eternal City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I cannot believe we have reached the end.  
> Christmas to Easter, almost, and I thought I was only going to write a short story on how Oliver became Kurt.  
> I wish to thank all of you who have stayed with me for the entire journey: your comments have meant and still mean the world to me.
> 
> This is the happy ending I promised and it is truly happy. I couldn't imagine a happier one for our beloved boys, so be prepared for tooth-rotting fluff.
> 
> Elio's POV

One night we were awaken by the phone ringing.

It was Rico.

“Ale had a seizure,” he sounded terrified, “His lips were blue and he couldn’t breathe. I called an ambulance,” he bit back a sob, “We are at the clinic and they told me he’s going to be fine, but I can’t remember Curzio’s number and don’t want to leave Ale on his own-”

“It’s alright,” I interjected, “We’ll call Curzio. Tell me where you are exactly.”

After he’d given me the details, I quickly ended the call.

Oliver was staring at me, wide-eyed. I explained what had happened.

“Get dressed,” he said, “I’ll take care of Curzio.”

Ten minutes later, we were driving towards Villa Giulia.

“I’d be so fucking grateful to see the back of that clinic,” Oliver railed.

“Not gonna happen for a while,” I argued, “Unless you wish to give up on Rico and Ale.”

He sighed and slammed the palm of his hand on the steering wheel.

“That damned AZT is pure poison,” he continued, “No one knows what it’ll do to their bodies in the long run.”

“Cigarettes are poison too and yet we won’t give them up.”

“Not tonight,” he replied, “But I was thinking about it.”

That was new. 

“It’s more about you than me,” he said, “Your skin is so peachy.”

I groaned, “You had to work that old joke into the conversation.”

He caressed my cheek. “I mean it, Elio. We should think about cutting down and eventually quit. Besides, nicotine-stained fingers are not a nice feature for a celebrity pianist.”

“I’m partly French,” I countered, “People expect us to be heavy smokers.”

“It’s not like you care about people’s opinion.”

I shrugged, but he was right, on all counts.

 

We were the first to arrive, because Curzio was coming from Ciampino.

Rico was shaking and his eyes were swollen and red from crying.

Oliver hugged him tightly and I embraced them both.

Since we were not allowed back into Alessio’s room, we went to the canteen for some coffee. It was one in the morning, but the cafeteria on that floor was open day and night.

“What did the doctor say?” I asked, as we waited for our drinks.

“Immune system,” Rico said, “One of those weird reactions they can’t predict. They can treat them, but not anticipate them: these were her words.”

“He’ll have to stay in here for a week or so,” he chewed his lips, trying not to cry. “And I want to be with him, and his flowers,” his voice broke, “He minds so much about them and I know he doesn’t want Curzio to worry---”

Oliver gazed at me and I nodded my head.

“Elio is on holiday and I can write anywhere,” he said, “We’ll look after Ale’s shop. I did a bit of gardening when I was at university.”

My eyebrows shot up: what had HE not done, I wondered, but didn’t say. Another thing I did not mention was that I had a black thumb and _maman_ never allowed me anywhere near her plants for fear that they’d wither and die. I could man the cash register and tidy up, while Oliver took care of the flora.

Rico protested that he wouldn't want to impose on us, but he was visibly relieved.

 

We returned to Alessio’s room and found his brother talking to a nurse, a young woman with short chestnut hair.

Curzio was a building contractor: he’d started off as a bricklayer and now employed thirty people. His hands were as big as Oliver’s but riddled with calluses and old scars. He had very sharp brown eyes which at the moment were hanging on every word the young nurse was uttering.

“He’s fine,” was the first thing he said when we approached them.

The woman explained that Alessio was resting but that his condition had stabilised and he could now breathe without intubation. She allowed us to see him, but we could only stay for a few minutes. Curzio was allowed to spend the night, but he let Rico take his place.

I clutched Oliver's hand and he squeezed my fingers so hard it hurt. I didn’t mind.

 

I’d always known that there were depths of sexiness in Oliver which I’d yet to plumb, but never would I have imagined that they’d be anything to do with flowers.

Two days after that night at the clinic, I was slack-jawed as my boyfriend talked about _strelitzia reginae_ with an elderly man in a Prince of Wales plaid suit.

“If your god-daughter’s name is Carlotta, this is her flower,” he was saying to his enraptured audience. “This beauty, also known as the bird of paradise, was named after Queen Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.”

I had a semi already, but I was adamant that it could be improved upon without much effort.

The customer made approving noises and bought a large bunch of them, which was going to be collected by his Filipino housekeeper.

“Did you make that up?” I asked Oliver, as soon as we were alone.

“Of course not,” he huffed, spraying the leaves of some enormous meaty plant whose name I couldn’t remember.

“Come with me,” I said, tugging the hem of his t-shirt. “I got something to show you.”

He rolled his eyes at me. “I’m not blowing you in the back garden,” he said.

It wouldn’t have been the first time, or the second.

“No, no,” I scowled, as though that was the last thing on my mind, “It’s your turn,” I winked, “You can have me any way you like.”

“It is lunch time,” he replied, “And I do have to _eat_ something, don’t I?”

I couldn’t have agreed more.

 

Six working days later, Alessio came back to find a well-tended shop and two seemingly innocent friends.

That night, it was a Sunday in late July, Oliver bought us a bottle of Gordon’s Pink Gin and asked me where I wanted to celebrate.

I thought about it for a moment then remembered my plans which had gone awry when Kurt had got into trouble.

“Villa Sciarra,” I replied, “The Fountain of the Vices.”

At two in the morning, we drove up Via Dandolo and parked near the gardens. We had brought ice in a cooler bag together with cans of tonic water and highball glasses.

“You fucking madman,” Oliver chuckled when I showed him the secret passage into the Villa.

“You love it,” I countered, and he kissed me hard on the mouth, pressing me against the wrought iron railings.

Once inside, we were enveloped by darkness and silence, broken only by the occasional noise of a distant car.

I guided him to the fountain and we sat on the grass facing it, preparing our nocturnal picnic.

Three cocktails later, I was drunk and Oliver was not far behind.

I had brought a blanket in my backpack, and we were lying on it, gazing at the stars. At least that’s what we were supposed to be doing.

“I need to piss,” he said, interrupting the romantic contemplation of the skies.

“Want to watch,” I replied, and followed him to the spot he’d picked to relieve himself. As soon as he unzipped, I realised that I had to go too, so I imitated him.

It turned into a literal pissing competition, which – of course – he won.

To cure me of the sulks, he prepared another G&T and this time with a lot more G than T.

“It’s not fair,” I heard myself mumble, “You can do everything and you look like a Greek statue too.”

He giggled and kicked off his espadrilles.

“I have deformed toes,” he joked, showing them to me.

“Don’t you dare,” I screeched, “Your feet are perfect.” And to prove my point, I crawled down the blanket until I came face to face with Oliver’s extremities. I was too smashed to speak so I licked his toes instead, and after a while, out of the blue, I started to cry. Oliver, who had been nuzzling my ankles, pulled me up and held me to his chest until it was over.

“It’s the gin,” he said, “It makes you sad.”

“That’s bullshit,” I sniffled, wetting his shirt.

“Gin tears,” he insisted, rubbing my nape.

“It’s not the gin,” I replied, and then in one breath, “I don’t want you to ever stop breathing and to know about flowers and royalty and not to have blue lips and seizures.”

“I’ll do my best,” he whispered.

“Okay,” I nodded and kissed his throat.

We finally looked at the sky and I thought I was going to say something poetic or profound, but Oliver spoke first.

“I love sucking your cock,” he said, matter-of-fact. He turned to face me and I listened intently. “It’s the closest I feel to heaven. Not the place back home, but real paradise. I won’t give it up without a fight.”

“You’d stay alive to go down on me.”

“The last thing I’ll do, one day, aeons from now.”

It was more romantic than poetry, I decided.

We closed our eyes and swam into unconsciousness.

 

 

My parents were due to arrive at Stazione Termini on a Monday late afternoon.

Oliver was tapping his fingers on the stone bench we were sitting on.

“Have one.” I handed him my pack of Lido.

“I shouldn’t,” he said, but took one all the same.

“Why are you nervous?” I wondered, “You spoke to them the other day and you know my mother better than I do.”

“You goose,” he snorted, “I don’t know, it’s just that, you could have done, you could have had better. And they can read me like a book. They saw, at the time, they did _see_ that I was going to make you unhappy. How can they forgive me when I cannot?”

I wanted to knock him on the head and kiss the stuffing out of him, not necessarily in that order. I settled for pinching his thigh.

“There is nothing to forgive,” I said, “They love you like a son.”

“I don’t love you like a brother,” he joked.

“We could explore that scenario,” I murmured, while my hand travelled towards his groin.

The train arrived a few seconds later.

 

“Elly, you have grown so tall.”

Dad stood back to admire me, while _maman_ was embracing Oliver and telling him how handsome he looked.

Ever the gentleman, he replied that she was ageing backwards, which – to be honest – was only a white lie: she really was in amazing shape.

“We’ll drive you to your hotel,” Oliver said, “Then we’ll take you out to dinner, if you feel up to it.”

“Not a hotel,” replied my dad. “One of Annella’s colleagues has lent us their apartment.”

It was the height of summer in Rome and many locals had left for the holidays. Shops were closed, traffic was sparser and there was an air of _dolce far niente_ which greatly appealed to artists and _flâneurs_ alike.

“Guess where it is?”

I shook my head.

“Via Garibaldi,” said _maman_ , smiling.

“But that’s just around the corner from us.”

Oliver beamed, “We’ll be neighbours.”

In the car, the conversation never lagged, and yet not a word about Kurt was spoken. Somehow, my parents managed to avoid the topic while trying to convey the assurance that whatever was in the past no longer mattered, and if it ever resurfaced, it would be treated with compassion not with censure.

 

We agreed to meet in Piazza S. Egidio and go to a nearby _trattoria._

The waiter was happy to see us, since the restaurant was almost empty.

“I can’t believe you are here,” I exclaimed, as I hugged my mother.

“We should have come earlier,” she said, “But your father was busy with his new project.”

Oliver and I turned to him, curious about this venture of which we’d not heard before.

He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat.

“You must know about the plans for a third metro line,” he said, waiting for us to confirm, which we did. “Well, there was some preliminary digging and they unearthed something quite spectacular.” The tip of his nose twitched, like that of a dog scenting truffle.

Oliver was enraptured too: his eyes open wide and his lips parted, I could imagine the kid he must have been, before his horrid family had deprived him of his spontaneity.

“In brief, they have asked me and Professor Roseman to oversee the excavations.”

“But it might take years,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, most probably,” he replied, grinning. “Will it be too much for you two to share the Eternal City with us oldies?”

I was speechless and Oliver’s eyes were bright with tears.

The waiter chose that interlude to bring the champagne.

“To the future,” said my dad, “May it be full of peace and love.”

We clinked glasses and toasted the wonders that lay ahead of us.

May they never cease.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated. Love is love is love....


End file.
